


These Woods

by Benevolent_Atlas31



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Author Is Sleep Deprived, BAMF Hermione Granger, BAMF Tom Riddle, Because The Author Loves To Feel Clever Sometimes, Black Hermione Granger, Blaise Zabini You Slut, Draco Malfoy & Harry Potter Friendship, Draco and Tom Friendship - Sort Of, F/F, F/M, Ginny Knows What's Up, Harry Potter is a Little Shit, Hermione Granger & Harry Potter Friendship, Hermione Granger Being a Know-It-All, Hermione and Tom Friendship, Insane Ginny, M/M, Other, Pansy Parkinson Defense Squad, Possessive Draco Malfoy, Possessive Tom Riddle, Powerful Harry, Ron Weasley is a Good Friend, Sarcastic Harry Potter, Smart Hermione Granger, Snarky Draco Malfoy, The Author Regrets Everything, The Author Regrets Nothing, Voldemort Dies, like a lot, like really
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-11
Updated: 2017-08-22
Packaged: 2018-05-29 03:55:37
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 9
Words: 46,543
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6358045
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Benevolent_Atlas31/pseuds/Benevolent_Atlas31
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You don't have to tell Harry Potter about wounds. He's seen them all: new ones, scars, festering and infected, and the ones that heal jagged. But look: he's either The-Boy-Who-Lived or The-Boy-Who-Can't-Manage-To-Die.</p><p>Ask anyone who knows him and they'll give you a very interesting answer.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Of Court Dates & Snarkiness

**Author's Note:**

> Based: "Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening" by Robert Frost.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Whose woods these are I think I know.

**Eight Days**

 

"Are there anymore questions?" 

Some officials began whispering. Of course, there were many things everyone in that room wanted to ask _Harry Potter_ , Saviour of the Wizarding World, but there's nothing that they wanted to ask Harry Potter Who Is Just Harry — so they didn't.

Particularly, it was —  _literally_ — for the history books. They called it a documentation, but Harry knew it was nothing more than a pat on the back for the Ministry and a smile and nod towards the public to reassure them that their newly-installed government had its shit together. 

Harry scoffed at the idea in the beginning, but had said nothing about it thus far. 

He distantly remembered Hermione talking about it a few days ago, telling him everything that they'd ask and what they would be expecting in return, but he remembers tuning her out with the same passion she tried to warn him with. 

He wondered if that was what regret feels like. 

"Mr. Potter," _Someone_ said, and Harry's hands clenched the same way they had every single time someone addressed him as such. "We've looked at your past records . . . Someone of your magical caliber . . ." He heard the now-familiar rustle of papers shuffling and scrolls re-arranging themselves. "You were below-average on your physical records at Hogwarts until . . ." More rustling. " . . . your fourth year."

There were eyes on him again. 

He should've probably been saying something here, he realized, but really couldn't muster the morale to care. 

"Was there a question in that I was supposed to answer, or would you just like me to go off into a separate tangent and let you pick out what you'd like?"

It was almost too easy.

Some man in a grey robe (courtesy of the new, Politically Correct Ministry of Magic's PR recommendation) scowled at him. He used to them all by now, so it doesn't phase him.

Honestly, Harry just thinks they all look tired.

"The wizarding world was informed that you'd had a happy, healthy childhood, Mr. Potter, so the question was referencing your background."

He had been wondering when this was going to come up. He had considered preparing himself to dig for the memories he had, respectfully, repressed, but he thought it would be more genuine for them if he didn't and allowed the chips to fall how they pleased. 

This was honestly getting ridiculous.

 

Harry raised an eyebrow and covertly took a deep breath. "There's this phenomena as old as time— Lies, sir. You have all been lied to. Unfortunately, I have not been afforded such luxury that is not believing in the truth."

The man spluttered at his implication, his face splotchy and red. "This cannot be," he sates, more to himself than the room full of people. He gains some composure, and clears his throat. "Dumbledore surely would have—"

" _Dumbledore_ ," Harry stressed, and curled his lips defensively as if daring him to strike. "is dead. That should show you the extent of how much the man was willing to sacrifice for his endgame." he sighed as all of the people clearly struggled to gain footing. "You all call Voldemort the villain — and rightly so — but the only difference between Voldemort and Dumbledore are the sides of the battlefields they led. The only thing that separate them, truly, are their ends — not their means."

Mr. Forgettable Face was  _literally_ spitting mad at this point. "You fought _with_ Dumbledore _against_ Voldemort! You can't possibly believe they are the same person!"

Harry let out a laugh. It wasn't filled with humor and his eyes didn't crinkle around the corners. It's maniacal and mad, and a cross between Bellatrix's battle cry and condescending bark he'd expect from Snape. "Sir, the wizarding world believes it has had four wars, does it not?" The man frowns deeply but nods. "One long before any of us existed, Grindelwald's war, and the last two of which I have put an end to."

"Yes." The man was actually steaming now, and it pulled a sick joy from the base of Harry to see it twist on his face. 

"I ended them because my survival depended on it . . . Because I didn't have a choice. _Both_ times it was because of Dumbledore's neglect to give information detrimental to the people it pertained to."

"Mr. Potter, I believe you are getting out of hand—"

"Am I, really? I was under the impression that I was here to give you an accurate account of what went on during the war while the Ministry was too busy letting a teenager do their job for them—"

" ** _Mr. Potter_**!" 

Harry, of course, had so much more to say. He was riled now, and was happily letting his rage swallow and digest him thoroughly. He was _angry_ and _burning_ , and too acutely aware of how _alive_ the man — only a few feet away from him — was and how _easily_ that could be rectified if he just willed it firmly enough. 

The thing is: whether or not he was the Chosen One didn't matter as much as most of the populous in this room believed it did — when Minerva McGonagall commanded it to be so, space and time would ultimately bend itself backwards in order to complete the task to her standards.

She took a moment to properly stare Harry into submission, then she turned a slightly less admonishing gaze onto the quasi-interviewer. "I understand that you would like your record as accurate as possible, so that there are no future mistrials or _misinterpretations_ due to this abhorrent war." A moment was allowed, clearly, for non-existent protest. "However, I do believe it _quite right_ that we pace this however Mr. Potter," Glare. "believes would suit him best. Today was not the right day for this to take place, obviously, so we will have to postpone until a more accommodating time can be arranged."

With that, _Minerva McGonagall_ turned her nose up at the _Minister_ , his entire court, and the documentarian. Her robes billowed around her, and in a moment, she had pinched Harry's ear and dragged him out of the courtroom.

 

* * *

 

**Ten Days**

 

The day was too sunny for a funeral, but no one said anything about it. It was a quiet day, and the only thing anyone could really hear was the sound of of irrevocable silence bouncing off the trees lining Fred's grave.

It was a beautiful day. 

They're all standing in a semi-circle around the modest headstone. Molly was standing in Arthur's arms to the direct right, and it followed around: George, Bill, Fleur, Ginny, Ron, Hermione, Harry, and Charlie. They were ignoring Percy's absence like they ignored the fact that George had been screaming for the past twenty minutes. (Not crying or sobbing, mind. He was just standing, his mouth forming an elliptical gape, and letting out a very tragic cry, as if trying to reach his twin from beyond the grave.)

"D'you think we should say anything?" Ron asked in the quiet of it all. The _Silencio_ wrapped around George was only doing so much, and even in their respective grief, they were all still worried about George, specifically. 

Ginny grabbed his hand and shook her head. "Let him have his peace." she said wisely. "He needs this."

And Ron nodded. It was a testament to the situation that he didn't say anything else. 

"In five minutes, we should Stun him," Harry stated resolutely, putting a hand Hermione's shoulder. "He's been at this for a while, and we don't need him to have a fit right now. That's the _last thing_ he needs."

Hermione acknowledged him with a nod and blank expression. She had suffered exceptionally after the end of the War, but considering it had only ended an odd week ago, it was hard to mark progress. Despite the fact that she had been mostly mute since being escorted off the battlefield, she had not lost her rationale. 

Despite public opinion, neither had Harry. 

(Out of the corner of his eye, Harry saw a flash of something silver in the lining of the trees.)

He rubbed his hands together for the contact, and all he could feel was a metaphorical weight and dirt from the handles on Fred's grave. It was comforting, almost, and he knew it was cynical and a little crazy, but he had no interest in conventions at the moment. 

He'd buried enough people within the last year to justify any comfort he found in their graves. 

Five minutes later, George was being carried into the house by Harry and Ron. No magic, just hands and closeness and _Here, Right Here We've Got You._

 

* * *

 

**Twenty-eight Days**

 

Every night since he'd died, Harry had had nightmares. (Harry _had_ had nightmares before he died, of course, but the ones where he died _again_ were not only more tiring and challenging to wake up from, but they were downright _frightening_. He knew what it felt like now, to not only die, but to be killed. To have life forcibly taken from you was not fun, and reliving it every night was no more fun than it was the first time it actually happened.)

He didn't know why he thought that the night of Fred's memorial service would be any different, but Hermione hovering over him with _that look_ quickly killed any idea he had of a 'normal night'.

She had made coffee — specifically not tea — and so he figured that she had had a nightmare as well. 

"Molly wants to send him to the coast." Hermione had a white-knuckle grip around her mug across from him. "She thinks that the sun will do him some good. She wants to send him back home with Bill and Fleur."

Harry knew that, had she not been saying anything she was thinking out loud, she would just be thinking it over and over again. Granted, maybe they should have been talking about more important things, but for now, talking about _literally anything else_ besides the war and death and publicity was more comfortable than doing that. 

"I don't think he'll go." Harry said, more sincerity in his voice in that moment than there had been within the last week. He shifted his weight in his feet. "I mean, I guess I don't really know, but I'd assume he'd want to stay at the Shop." _I assume he'd want to stay where the last real remnants of Fred are._  

Hermione shrugged. "He said he was going back, and Bill and Fleur were overjoyed. I think her sister is going to be staying with them as well."

Harry just nodded.

There were so many things that needed to be said in that moment (and all the time really), but the words could do nothing more than claw at the base of his throat and whine. He wanted to tell her that she was loved and that he was so glad that she had stuck with him in the war and that she didn't have to wear long sleeves in this weather if she didn't want to and that he knew she had more scars from Bellatrix than she was letting on and that—

But he didn't have to say any of it: She knew. 

They both did. 

(For a second, he could've sworn he heard . . . _someone_ hit the window.)

"How are you and Ginny?" she asked, even though they both knew that was not what she meant. 

_How normal do you feel anymore?_

He smirked. "About as good as you and Ron, I suppose."

_Which is to say, not at all._

And, of course, everyone else would've just assumed he was being an ass. To anyone else, that probably would've stung, but Hermione was different. 

(Maybe it was the wind?)

Instead of the normal frown and pout between her forehead that normally developed when she was hurt (which should've been there, if she were in her right mind), she just sighed and laid to rest her forehead against the counter. "What have we gotten ourselves into, Harry?" 

He shrugged even though he knew she could not see him. "Something messy . . . and _orange_."

Her shoulders rose, taking in a sharp breath. As she let it out, she choked on what might have once passed for a laugh. 

Hermione didn't laugh anymore. Not really. Harry had no illusions about being the only one who died and came back from The Battle (as they were, apparently, referring to it as now). It took four days for Hermione to talk to anyone but Harry, and that was only out of necessity to ask Andromeda where Teddy was. She was closed and cold, on the surface, and she hardly communicated with anyone who wasn't Harry, Teddy, or, even more shockingly, _Draco Malfoy,_ who had apparently become a frequenter of Hermione's company (in secret, of course, because even Hermione couldn't lie and say that even Harry wouldn't know their 'friendship' had he not caught them mid-brunch a week after his failed Documentation Date.)

Hardly anyone noticed them here, and they both knew that was why they stayed. 

Hermione and Harry were both well versed in grieving and they both hated doing it around other people. However, they were spectacular at compartmentalization, biting the inside of their cheeks when they wanted to scream, and taking care of people who couldn't take care of themselves. It was quietly understood that Hermione had been unofficially tasked with the near-catatonic Ginny, and Ron and Harry had been charged with George.

It was a house full of living ghosts, and Harry couldn't tell if it was laughter or familiarity that bloomed in his chest whenever he thought of it like that. 

Suddenly, hands were on his shoulders and—

"Harry, go back to bed. The sun's rising, and you won't be able to answer their questions if they find you gone." Her arm snaked around him and he was finding it very hard to remain unmoved. 

He grunted, and pushed himself the rest of the way up. He kept her under his arm though, and they walked towards the stairs together. "We could just go back to The Forest, 'Mione. I could build us a little cabin, you could get all the books you'd ever think to read in that bag of yours." When they reached the base of the stairs, he turned and placed his hands on her shoulders. They were parallel and some inches away. "We'd never have to worry about any of this," he gestured to the ceiling, and above them, the sleeping bodies of the people they loved and were on their way to losing. "They don't want us here, 'Mione, you know that. Let's just go and grow old. Grow happy."

There was a sort of reality in the offer. They _could_ go, if they were so inclined. They could just pick up, and leave to the Forest of Dean and never look back. Harry could (attempt to) build a cabin their, and Hermione could spend her days reading, and Harry could spend his days doing whatever one did when they lived in a cabin with their best friend in the middle of the forest they once stayed in while trying to hide from a homicidal sadist. 

But they wouldn't.

There was too much finality in the process of it, and neither of them were all that great at making choices they couldn't go back on, they had been rapidly discovering. They couldn't leave Teddy, and they couldn't leave Ginny, or George, or Charlie, or Percy's absence, or any other, currently sleeping body they had found a family in. The last reminder that they were more than what they were forced to be was here and at Hogwarts, and this was the only place the two of them could stand to be without vomiting from an PTSD.

Hermione was always the rational one.

She chuckled, and it was a needle in his lungs to _still_ notice that it _wasn't_ a laugh. "Harry Potter," she reached up and stroked the side of his face. "You may be one of the bravest men I have ever known." Her hand stilled against his forehead, but her fingertips twitched a little to move some of his unruly hair. "That, however, does not change the fact that you are absolute _shit_ with a knife."

She kissed his cheek, and continued up the stairs.

He smiled. In the silence of the room, he thought to himself,  _Brightest witch of the age, of course._

And then Harry felt something he had only ever felt once in his entire life before. A skyscraper-sized realization toppled over him and his knees bent, a little, with the weight of it. After a moment, his shoulders ached and he stopped breathing altogether—

_There was no wind._  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I, unfortunately, do not own Harry Potter and I won't for the remainder of this fic, or any other ones.


	2. Secrets Don't Make Friends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> His house is in the village though;

Harry's shoulders were taut and his broad chest was held stiffly as he, quite literally, stormed into McGonagall's new office.

 _McGonagall's_ new _office . . . Not Dumbledore's_ old _one._  

He shook his head and pushed on the door. He was a damn Gryffindor for a reason. 

Jesus. 

"Someone's not over the war," No preamble, no eloquence. He wasn't here for subterfuge.

McGonagall looked up from whatever she had been writing on the desk —  _Voldemort'sringfawkeslemondrops_ — and gave him a sort of indulging look over her spectacles. She gestured for him to sit in the chair directly across from her, and he quickly did so. "Most people aren't over the war, Mr. Potter. It has only been about a month since it ended."

Harry curled his toes in his shoes and took delicate breaths. This was not an enemy he was talking to, and he knew that. _He knew that._ He knew she wasn't—

He shook his head again and ran his hand through his hair, catching on curls and knots. "That's not what I mean." He felt something claw it's way up his throat and remained very still. " _Someone's_ — _something_ , I don't know — following me. I thought I saw something when we were leaving the Ministry, but I wasn't sure—"

"A lot of people come and go from the Ministry. That is no reason to be suspicious." And her voice was steady, but her face was much more pale than he'd ever seen her in a situation that didn't really warrant it. 

Whatever had clawed it's way into his throat must have gained some density, because he could feel it fall back into his stomach like a lead weight and sit there, heavy and terrifying. (He couldn't think of _when_ or _why_ he had felt this before, but he knew he had.) 

His lip curled up on the side. "Yeah, I _realize_ , and that's why I wasn't so worried about it. But then, I saw the same thing again at Fred's memorial at the Burrow, and then again a last week."

She put her pen down, and closed her eyes for 1 . . . 2 . . . 3 . . . and— "Excuse me for a moment." And it took him a moment to realize she was leaving the room.  _Billowing robes must be a hobby for all of the headmasters and mistresses of Hogwarts._ He thought dryly as he watched her person disappear through the door.

He sighed and sat back in his seat, crossing his arms over his chest. He closed his eyes, and tried to avoid the hard press of nostalgia. The feeling almost tasted sweet to him, but not the type of sweet that went down easily. It reminded him, mostly, of one of George's trick candies that he left sitting out at the shop's front desk that made it harder to open your mouth the longer you held it in there. 

The room smelled different. The imprint it had left on his mind was lemon, rosemary, and peppermint, but now, it smelled like linen and dust. Harry knew McGonagall spent a considerable amount of time in here trying to sift through all the paperwork and all the complaints and whatever else a headmaster was supposed to do when there wasn't a war going on and they weren't too busy actively dying. 

Harry pressed his lips together and opened his eyes slowly. It was no use trying to forget, he knew. He knew someday, this would simply make him into a new person. He knew someday all these memories and all these ghosts would change him into a new Harry that didn't hurt so bad all the time and could manage to sleep a whole night through. However, that Harry wasn't here yet and he was bitter about it. 

His eyes were immediately drawn to a large scratch on a bookcase behind the desk. 

"That's new," he said to himself, and jumped at the sound he made. 

He was out of his chair before he knew it, and the bookcase was leering over him before he registered his feet moving. He raised a hand to touch the mark: it wasn't a scratch, because there were no divots, just shallow valleys of curves that the skin of his fingertips sank into and he stroke the mark. It ran healthily from one corner to one corner, and as he watched the tips fade at the corners, it became apparent what he was looking at — burn marks. They weren't normal markings, though — they looked deliberate and, well, like they had a purpose there. The mark was completely symmetrical, and Harry was betting that if he'd had a ruler, everything would have lined up perfectly. 

He processed that information, and just before he could decide if he wanted to know what that meant, he heard the old door hinges groan as they were pushed against. 

Harry was in his seat quick enough that his head spun a bit as he settled into the chair. 

"I apologize for the interruption, Harry," McGonagall billowed back into the room as gracefully as she left, with only a few hairs out of place. "It's taking a bit more to repair the wards than I had originally hoped for, and has turned into _quite_ the group project." 

( _Liar_.)

And in that exact moment, Harry realized a succession of things quite quickly: 

1.) Minerva McGonagall was lying to him. Her eyes were too tight and her breaths were millimeters too shallow for her to be telling him anything near the truth. People who didn't know him took him for unobservant, but in truth, Harry caught on to a lot more than everybody gave him credit for. He knew that she knew this, and somewhere in the back of his mind, he was wondering if she was letting something slip on purpose. 

2.) He was going to have to lie to Minerva McGonagall. Harry didn't like lying at all really, but in truth, he had no qualms with it. He misses the days when he was a right rotten liar, because now he has something of a skill for it. Still, the prospect of lying to _Minerva McGonagall_  sounded about as much fun as dying again. 

3.) He was going to have to come back here again. Those burn marks were anything but benevolent, and even though he was quite sure they weren't connected to his situation, he had begun to notice that coincidences didn't just _happen_ in his life. 

A particularly strong breeze blew against a window somewhere behind him and Harry listened as it toppled over itself on the half-open sill. As he felt it brush against his back, he felt a new sort of finality wash over him. 

"Professor, if there's something wrong—"

McGonagall's unnerving smile cut him off. "Mr. Potter, I can assure you that if there were something wrong, you would be the first to know." He allowed her her time to get re-settled behind the desk.

( _You **promised**. You **promised** you wouldn't lie to me._ )

He grimaced. 

"Now, about your predicament—"

He held up a hand. "Professor," His gut twisted. "I really only came because Hermione suggested it."

( _You said this wouldn't be like last time. You said—_ )

She didn't look convinced, but she looked relieved. "She was right to send you." She looked at him over her glasses once again, this time stern. "I would like to be kept informed of any further happenings." And she was looking at him for an answer. 

This was it. If he was going to confront her, he was going to have to do it now. It was simple.  _Yes, Professor, I would love to keep you informed. First, tell me what you're hiding from me?_ It was as simple as that. 

He just had to _say_ it. 

"I'll let you know."

Something shifted. 

She smiled, stood, and walked herself around the desk. She stood in front of him and looked up at him, as he was about half a head taller than her. She reached up, slowly as if she were still deciding if it were a good idea or not, and placed a tentative hand on his shoulder. "Mr. Potter, you needn't worry so much. Everything here is just fine." she said, tone soft and slightly disarming. "You should just worry about re-adjusting to your life."

( _Liar_.)

He smiled with his teeth. "I'm doing just fine, Professor. I promise."

( _Liar_.)

( _Liar_.)

( ** _Liar_**.)

As he walked out of her office, he didn't know who he meant. He just felt anger. 

Later that night, he didn't know who he was more angry with. 

 

* * *

 

"Maybe we could get you a fish. Lot's a people say pets help, but I know you hate dogs, and Teddy hates turtles."

Harry blinked up at Luna, caught a bit off guard by the paper he was reading. "So your next alternative is a fish?" He took a quick sip of his coffee. "Fish die, Luna."

She cocked her head to the side and frowned. "Everything dies, Harry."

He choked on his coffee and spluttered. 

"Just get the damn kid a kneazle and be done with it." Malfoy. 

It was funny to Harry to think that, in the beginning, this could have constituted as a war-zone. It started small: When Harry had actually been confronted with taking full and complete ownership of Grimmauld, he had been hesitant, and had been quick to try and shift the title unto Andromeda. She'd had none of it, and told him, "I'd rather not." in a long-winded speech about ownership and responsibility that had, somehow, ended in him getting a succession of slaps and a hug and a kiss on the forehead.

It had been a long day.

In the end, Harry had moved his clothes in and taken down the dark drapery. He had known he wasn't going to live there on his own, but until anyone came looking, he would have to make it less ungodly depressing. 

It was complicated at first — living on his own. It was better, of course, than cooking for three people morning, noon, and night, maintaining an entire house of people who hated him, and barely getting enough love and food to survive. However, he knew he wasn't good at being alone: he often forgot meals, he lost track of time, he got into one too many fights with the portraits _—_

Roommates soon turned a lovely idea into a necessity. 

Luna furrowed her eyebrows and Harry tried to clean himself off again. "Draco," she said, in a rather stern voice. "Mind your language."

Harry didn't turn to see Malfoy's expression at that, but he could imagine. "Lovegood," he began, pouring himself a cup of something. "I'm very much _careful_ on my days around the tot. Am I not allowed a day off?" 

Luna shook her head and took a small sip. "You should respect Harry's effort. At least he's putting some thought into it." 

Harry offered her a small smile. 

Malfoy scoffed and joined them at the table. "By getting him a pet?" He turned to look at Harry. "How _original_. The kid can't even talk yet and you want to kill him with cliches"

Harry raised an eyebrow, and tried to swallow the memory of a time when a remark like that was meant to wound. "Any better ideas, have you?" 

 _Draco_  (Harry had been trying to work on first names with the other young man) raised an eyebrow of his own and crossed his arms, leaning forward in his chair. "I'm simply saying that a gift meant to symbolize ' _Commitment and Stability_ ' probably shouldn't have such an fallible expiration date."

He had a point. 

"You have a point," Harry conceded, conflict wrapping itself around his person. "That doesn't solve the problem at hand."

Draco just shrugged, and took another swallow of whatever was in his mug, as Harry stood and wrapped a jacket around himself. "I'm not saying that it's a solution, Potter, I'm just saying that it's fair. There's no denying that."

And yes, Harry supposed, as he moved to Disapparate in front of the front door. 

And wasn't that just everything?

 

* * *

 

 

The seemingly early appearance of June soon dribbled into a weighted July. The atmosphere of it seemed to lay heavily on everyone and the space between them, but, like much else, went unspoken in the hopes of it passing. It was felt by Minerva McGonagall, who was both pressured by the deadline of having the entire school operational by September first, and trying to figure how one, mysterious and (un)wanted traveler managed to tip his hat at space-time and arrive on her doorstep. It was felt by Ginevra Weasley, who was still failing to grasp the dissolution of her family from their rightful household, but constantly being silenced by mind-healers and her mother alike, claiming it was nothing but "shock." (Which, fine, she thought, but excuse her if she wasn't all that comfortable that her family was spread across continents when their numbers had been dwindling lately.) It was felt by Hermione Granger, who always felt like she was drowning, and found solace in both a war hero and a war criminal. It was felt by Luna Lovegood, Draco Malfoy, Blaise Zabini, Pansy Parkinson, and countless others who woke up every morning, unsure if they still had parents to go home to someday, when they felt settled with normalcy. It was felt by a man who had never heard of any of these people, but when he waited for his train every morning, thought of his wife and three children and, once and a while, thought of whether or not he had had breakfast that morning.

It was felt, also, by Harry Potter, but that goes without saying. 

The first three weeks of July passed by without much event. (An ungodly amount of rain, to be sure, despite the fact that it had been previously projected to be one of the sunniest months of the year.) For the first three weeks of July, Minerva McGonagall kept her composure and racked her tired brain for answers. Ginevra Weasley went to every scheduled appointment, and took every psych-potion without protest, growing more dull-eyed with every one of each. These weeks saw to it that Hermione Granger's nights were spent less courting sleep, and more wringing her nightmares about the neck, and comforting a new, platinum-haired companion who might have been able to be found sleeping on her couch any odd weekday. They returned Lovegood and Malfoy their parents, but tediously denied Parkinson, Zabini, and many others the sentiment. The man who had never heard of any of these people still awoke during these weeks to catch his train every morning, and to kiss his wife awake and hug his children goodbye, and think of his breakfast when he had the time. 

The first three weeks of July saw Harry Potter tortured with another Documentation, petty feuds with his increasingly diversifying group of friends, and the constant feeling like his body was preparing itself for a battle no one told him about. His heartbeat was constantly on the prowl for trouble, it seemed, as it rarely did what would be expected of it: it sped in with anxiety and anticipation in the most calm of moments, and slowed when he was forced into uncomfortable, often out-of-country situations for PR of the War. (Which, yes, he reasoned, he'd had his friends with him, but that still didn't explain it.) His body was forever-sore, as he held it so stiffly during his days that his muscles were much too over-worked for anything else by the end of the day. 

Unbeknownst to them all, in comparison of what was to come, the first three weeks of July were an untangled breeze.

This is a tragedy, after all. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To start, I would just love to thank all of you for sticking with this story. I know this chapter was not much in quantity nor quality, and I apologize for that. I've been very busy these past couple of weeks and the chapter that comes next is the only thing that's been pulling me through! Please let me know what you thought about this though(?) I'm sure a lot of things are very confusing right now, but I'm hoping that it will speak for itself later. I know my exposition and fillers aren't the most sense-making, but I really just wanted to get this over with. (Next chapter is all Tom, by the way.)
> 
> Why do you all think?


	3. If/When You Can't Win

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He will not see me stopping here

_Harry Potter has found me._

_I write this having not been defeated, as I did not invest much in keeping myself hidden — which old Minny knew I wouldn't (either from her own instincts, regarding what she deduced about me in school, or from the fact that I blatantly told her I did not feel that it was in my best interest to comply when she first found me splayed on the grounds.) She knew I wasn't going to be the good little prisoner she might once have projected, but I never asked to be here, so it can't be counted as disrespect._

~~_Harry Potter has_ ~~

_The first true oddity (bar: literally being ripped out of time) came when I was placed in the Ministry. I suppose the feeling is not unlike Disapparating. There's a distinct pull, and then suddenly you're somewhere else. There's nothing . . . I **can't**. . . There's nothing else **for** it. You just **are** and then you **aren't** and there's nothing to **deduce** or **think** about. There's simply the way space-time bends around you, and then **that** feeling, and then you simply **aren't there** for space-time to be bent around — you just **are** somewhere new. _

~~_Harry Potte_ ~~

_It's all been a v. strange experience._

_(I didn't know I was supposed to be running from him, you see.)_

_When I "appeared" in that thin lining of trees, I couldn't see much — only Potter: all disastrous hair and violent eyes. I could feel magic nearby, but I could not detect what it was._

_After that, I was content to wait in Minerva's magic-less cubby while she tested and tried and prodded and interrogated. Once in a while, I'd remark that there should be something that a competent Headmistress should be doing with her time, instead of treating an innocent, teen-aged boy like a criminal. She rant and rave at that for some amount of time, and while annoying, it allowed me my only time to think while observing something that could actually help me understand._

_From these meetings, I gathered little that felt like a lot: 1) Hogwarts was in ruins. I appeared in the Headmasters office, but I could see rumble and newly installed fixtures inside the office. That, and 2) Of course Minny shut and locked the door with a spell only she knew how to use from inside the room, which led me both to realize that the_ room _wasn't magic-less,_ I _was. 3) I had "traveled" some odd fifty-five years into the future._

_My curiosity made me sloppy. Granted, I had never really developed a plan. I didn't know what I was looking for. Once I got away from the magical interference of the cubby (Minerva was always much craftier than I gave her credit for), I was simply waiting for Magic to take me wherever She had wanted me to go. I figured that She certainly wouldn't have ripped me some fifty-five years out of time for no reason. After a few moments, I felt the same pull I had felt when She first moved me, and then I was in the lining of trees. I don't . . . There can be no **eloquence** to soften blow that I truly had no idea as to where I was, or where I was supposed to be going. _

_And as soon as I had come, I was just . . . **gone** again. _

_After that, I had decided I needed a drink — anything to get me thinking. I needed something to allow me to wipe away some . . . inhibitions: to break down my walls if you will. Maybe it wasn't right of me, but I need something to get me going, as I wasn't **getting** anywhere by just **waiting—**_

_*_

Tom Riddle slowly lowered the stump of a pencil to its side and let it rest on the table. He knew that he could write more, but his writing was becoming too honest; it was becoming suspiciously personal. He needed his journal to layout his plans on, but, unfortunately, he had "appeared" with anything more than his body intact and the clothes that he had been wearing. 

"After this, you know the rest." he told the emotionless auror. (He wondered how many his plans had come to fruition; he wondered if this auror had been assigned to him for a specific reason.)

The auror (Tom was only half certain 'it' was a female) shifted as she wrote something on a pad in a language that he couldn't read. "So, you know where you are?"

Clearly, she was uncomfortable. The corner of her lips were held tight, a vein in her neck was beginning to protrude under increasingly reddening skin, and her breaths came in little, perfectly controlled puffs.

Tom thought this demeanor was interesting. "Generally, yes." he said, soft and polite as he could. "I know I am not," He coughed. "quite in time. But I don't know much about _where_ I am. Minerva was very adamant about keeping books made after my time well out of my reach."

A smirk slid onto the auror's face, and though she still would not look at him (Had it got out that he was a Legilimens?) he could tell that he had her. "Certainly not a task inside the walls of Hogwarts."

He slowly allowed a small smile to carve its way onto his face. "Yes, I suppose not." He pushed a small chuckle. ( _Execute Execute Execute)_

"Now, could I ask for a minute alone with Mister Potter? I know he is in the building."

The words had barely filtered their way from brain to mouth before he knew he'd regret them. 

_Sloppy Sloppy Sloppy_

A wand was at his throat before he could open his mouth again. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To clarify, this chapter was written (before the asterisk) a confession of sorts. What did you think? Did I do okay writing for Tom? Would you like to see more?


	4. We Need to Talk About You, Tom Riddle (Who the Hell is Kevin?)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> To watch his woods fill up with snow.

**_Now_ **

A replication of the boy Harry met in the Chamber during Second Year sat in the chair in front of him with his mouth at a neutral straight line, and eyes careful focused on something no one else could see.

“You’re sure he can’t see us?” Harry asked the auror that was stationed with him. Williams, he remembers, vaguely. It was the same man — impossibly tall, shoulder-length blonde hair tied back, and brown eyes — who had shadowed the Minister when he had visited Hogwarts just after the Battle. He had made a short, yet grandiose speech about togetherness and will, and Williams couldn’t have looked more respectfully bored with the entire affair if he had tried.

Williams looked at Harry, something shining in his eye, and shrugged. “Apparently so. You can thank Arthur Weasley for this little, one-way mirror invention. Said he discovered it in a raid a few years before the year. We really didn’t much thought into it, aside from giving him a grant to play with it a little. He duplicated it, apparently, and it turned out to come in mighty handy during Death Eater interrogations.”

Harry pursed his lips and nodded. People really didn’t give Mr. Weasley enough credit. “So why exactly have I been called?”

Harry felt shifty.

Yes, he had found Tom (and thus, already interacted with him), and yes, he was curious. However, Harry was also a normal human being, and normal human beings usually didn’t stop to chat with past versions of the megalomaniacs they would come to kill. To be fair, it was acceptable that the Ministry didn’t know this unspoken social rule because they had likely not had a duplicate incident, but Harry had hoped it was one of those given things.

Apparently not, as here he was, standing on one side of an enchanted version of a one-way mirror, staring down the deranged, impassive sociopath.

And for what? Because the Ministry was shaking in their boots, and was too afraid to approach this Tom Riddle, just as they had to approach his older counterpart.

Harry pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to calm himself down. Being angry with an entire institution was as pointless as getting angry here, and getting snappy with Williams, who was just trying to his job.

He didn’t look at Williams as the man spoke. “He requested you, actually. My partner was getting his confession and he asked for you.” Harry snapped up to look at him. Williams paused a moment before continuing in a bit more insecure manner than before. “Of course, we initially denied him, but . . .” Williams trailed off and turned to look at the statue-esque Riddle. “You can’t even get in the room without feeling like . . . like you’re _suffocating_.”

Harry raised an eyebrow. “That doesn’t make sense. You can’t use magic in those rooms. That’s kind of the _point_ , isn’t it?” In his head, he was trying to convince himself that it wasn’t fear that was pulling itself out of his throat at the moment.

Williams was quick to nod and throw a steady look to Harry before going to back to observing Riddle. “That’s sort of the problem. We know how skilled he was with compulsion, but it shouldn’t matter.” The man shook his head and looked back to Harry. “We wouldn’t have called you, Mr. Potter, but it seems we have no other options. He claims to not know how he got here, but, of course, we can’t trust that.” (It sounded like he had rehearsed this, but not quite enough to believe it.) “The only thing he had demanded was to see you. He said that he would allow himself to be bound, if you wish, and even that he would swear on his Magic, if necessary.”

Harry licked his lips. _He just works here. He’s just the messenger. He is not the enemy._

Harry took another deep breath. “So, he just wants to _talk_?”

Williams perked immediately. 

 

* * *

 

_**Four Days Earlier** _

"You know those things can kill you, right?" 

Pansy gave him a deadpan look and blew the smoke pointedly into his face. "Everything can kill you, Potter. The idea is that you make it _fun_."

He glared at her. "Between you and Draco, I'm telling you."

She smirked and took another inhale. "Didn't know how _adventurous_ us Slytherins were, did you? Thought it was all you Gryffindors?" 

He clicked his tongue. "Thought you were all too busy marrying your cousins too do much else. 

There was a beat of silence between the two of them where Pansy rolled the cigarette between her fingers — and came dangerously close to burning herself with the tip of it — and Harry gestured with the ashtray and took a swallow of his drink. 

In the next beat, Pansy was howling with laughter and rubbing out her cigarette in the ashtray. 

Harry smirked. 

"You know, I still am a bit jealous that the lions hid you all for themselves up in that tower." she admitted. "You are absolutely delicious when you aren't being a righteous prick about everything."

He smiled, genuinely this time. "I could say the same to you." And she batted at his hand, but she was smiling too. "And, anyways, I _was_ almost in Slytherin."

She crossed her arms and lent forward to rest them on the table. "Well now I _am_ interested: do tell." 

Harry shook his head and took another sip of his coffee. "Maybe some other day. I must admit, this wasn't an entirely friendly call. I have a favor to ask."

As much as Harry was beginning to like Pansy, she really was the last person he wanted to ask for something like this. It was rude and a bit presumptuous, but there was no one else to ask, really. Snape was dead, Blaise's mother was had fled to some village in France and had yet to be heard from, Theodore would have asked for something outrageous in return, and Draco would have probably just asked Pansy anyways. 

Her smile slowly and subtly turned into a smirk behind her teacup as she spoke behind it. "I warn you, I'll have to ask for something in return. What can I do you for, Potter?"

He took a deep breath through his nose. "I need information."

"What kind of information?"

He looked around the mostly empty cafe and moved closer to her so their heads seemed to be bowed together. Had she not been wearing an impossibly short skirt and had Harry not been dressed in a long, blue coat and been shrouded in the general vibe of _Fuck Off,_ they could have been mistaken for praying. "Is there anybody I should be worried about?" he asked quickly, practically vomiting the words at her. 

She raised an eyebrow, and her lips puckered. "You're going to have to be a bit more specific than that, doll."

"I mean," Again, Harry looked conspicuously about the, mostly empty, cafe. "Is there anything else I have to do? Anybody that would want to . . . I don't know . . . hurt me, or something."

"Like a Dark group?" She took her compact mirror out of the tiny purse that hung off the back of her chair and furrowed her eyebrows at it. Harry knew that this was what helped Pansy think, but he was just glad that he didn't have to maintain eye contact.

"Of the sorts, yeah. Just anybody that I should have to look out for."

He heard her snap the mirror shut. "And I suppose you want me to use my _connections_?"

Connections was a euphemism. After the war, everybody had a little something they had to do to make it through the day. Luna made jewelry and built special telescopes, Neville tended gardens and tweaked certain growth potions, Ginny baked extensively and cried, and Pansy slept with any man who she deemed to worthy. Harry didn't judge her for that — he had his own way to get through the day, and it was her body anyways — and he was almost envious of her level of detachment. Mostly, though, Pansy stuck to politicians and underground ex-criminals. (Harry didn't ask about anything she didn't tell him, because of course he didn't. He wasn't prude-ish, but, generally, Harry didn't really like conversations with began with,  _Hey, you know your last screw . . ._ )

He shook his head. "Not particularly, no. I'm just asking if you've heard anything."

She nodded, understanding. "Nothing out of the ordinary. I mean, you aren't doing wonders for your public War-Hero image, you know." She gave him a pointed look. (So maybe his Documentation hadn't been quite the isolated incident.) "However, I don't remember hearing anything specific violent from anyone. Why?" 

He sucked in a tight breath. "No specific reason."

And now he was lying to her too. 

 

* * *

 

**_Now_ **

"Wand?"

"Checked in."

"Any potions or cursed objects?"

"Not that I know of." Disapproving look. "No."

"Are you suffering from any physical illnesses?"

"No."

An internal monitoring spell washed over him. Something flashed on the wand in front of him that apparently confirmed his estimate. 

"Are you suffering from any mental illnesses?"

"Uh . . ."

 

* * *

 

**_Four Days Earlier_ **

None of it added up. 

Of course, there was bound to be people who didn't quite appreciate him. Most known Death Eaters that hadn't yet been tried (and mostly convicted) were still locked up, Nox — a rag-tag, Light-hating assemblage of people who had been miscellaneously affected by the war — hadn't even made any sort of public strike before they were investigated and subsequently shut down, and he hadn't personally received any death threats that packed any really punch to them. (Parents of those who died in the Battle, sure, but most of them had sent apologies later after the more irrational part of their grief had subsided.)

None of it made sense. 

Nothing suggestive, nothing out of the ordinary, and nothing he could report to anyone else. Sure, it all felt like paranoia (especially so, considering everyone he ever told constantly called it paranoia) but Harry had learned that you could in fact call it paranoia if they were really out to get you. 

**_(Who the hell is they?)_ **

 

* * *

 

_**Now** _

"If you feel, at any moment, that you are not safe, there is a button underneath the spot you will be sitting. You just have to give it a light tap twice and my partner and I will be in right away. I will also be standing behind the glass here, and if I suspect anything is up, I will be in shortly, no matter what _either_ of you have to say about it. Don't give me that look! You may be _Harry Potter_ , but word on the street is that, more often than not, you need someone to save _you_."

 

* * *

 

**_Four Days Earlier_ **

Harry hadn't quite _meant_ to punch Tom Riddle in the face within the first fifteen seconds of seeing him on his doorstep. (Granted, he hadn't technically meant to _not_ punch him either, but to be fair, he wasn't exactly prepared for the situation and opportunity to present themselves all in one shot like that.)

Riddle sat at the bottom of the last stair, holding the side of his face. "This could be a problem." he muttered, and if Harry hadn't known better, he would have called the tone _dreamy_.

Harry didn't know exactly what reaction was warranted in this situation, because of all the fucked up situations he had been in his life, this had not been one to even feature in his nightmares. Voldemort coming back? Sure. Tom Riddle, back in the Chamber having actually taken the life out of Ginny and used it to actualize himself so he could dominate the world looking like _jailbait_? Probably after one too many drinks, sure. But this exact situation: Tom Riddle (near-replica of Diary Tom) sitting on his doorstep, cradling his razor-sharp, pointy-edged face and looking up at Harry like _something_ after Harry tried to bend space-time to try and _literally_ put his fist _through_ Riddle's high-cheekbones?

That had yet to feature on the menu. 

However, as Riddle opened his mouth to speak once again, Harry quickly realized that 1) this moment wouldn't need to be in his nightmares, because it was, in fact, happening in real-life; 2) Riddle was going to try and speak again; and, 3) if Riddle did manage to project noise from his throat and form words with that noise using his lips, Harry might actually try to rip them off his face. 

It was a very stressful few milliseconds before Harry quickly drove his top set of teeth into his bottom lip, clawed at the lapels of Riddle's coat, and hauled him up by them. He made sure Riddle was steady as he tried to help the other boy stand and that there was sufficient enough distance between the two of them (that being that there could fit another, lithe human being snugly between them) before continuing. "Shut up before someone hears you." he hissed the breathy words between tightly clamped teeth.

When it was clear Riddle had no idea how to react to that (was that Ogden's he was smelling?) Harry roughly shoved him through the doorway before taking a quick survey of the street: empty, as usual at this hour. 

Quickly, he shut and latched the door (Muggle latch, magic spell lacing, in addition to the wards) and turned back to see Riddle, leaning against the wall with a shit-eating grin on his face. "That was _rude_. You are _rude_ , Harry Potter. Did anyone ever tell you that?" 

So here's the thing: Harry had dealt with plenty of Tom Riddles/Lord Voldemorts up until this point. Alive, dead, in limbo, crazy as hell, Horcrux, etc. etc. 

Completely blasted and looking at him like he's hung the goddamn moon and stars?

Not until now. 

"You know who I am . . . How do _you_ know who I am?" The question was out of his mouth before he could remember that he didn't want to know. (Between the end of his sentence and the beginning of Riddle's, he wondered if it would be too out of place to jam his fingers in his ears, close his eyes, and pretend that none of this was happening.)

The smile didn't falter, but instead, carried itself to one corner of Riddle's mouth to form an exulted smirk. "Of course I know who you are!" he says, and the smirk bleeds into a lopsided frown. 

_Tom Riddle is in my house._

_Tom Riddle is in my house drunk._

_Tom Riddle is in my house, drunk, and pouting._

And there are many Adult Things Harry knows he needs to do now. Fire call McGonagall? Yes. Send a Patronus to Hermione and Ron? Of course. Get Riddle _the hell_ out of his house, floo him to the Ministry to turn him in? It's definitely at the top of the list, _somewhere_. 

And he _swears_ he's screaming in his head at his body to actually _do_ all of those things. Before any of them are be accomplished, however, Harry blinks and says simply, "I need a drink." and does that instead. 

 

* * *

 

**_Now_ **

It's just Williams and his partner, Jones, but Harry still feels like there're too many eyes on him as the door handle seems to increasingly warm in his hand. 

"Slow and steady, Potter." Jones says. They've already established that touching him is not the best of ideas at the moment, but, clearly, the boy-going-on-man was having quite a bit of trouble. "You're doing fantastic."

And at that, he had to scoff. "See, the thing is that I've killed him, ma'am. Multiple times, in fact. The fact that I can't simply conquer a few inches of steel, merely because _he_ is on the other side, isn't doing great things to my pride at the moment." He keeps his hand on the door as he looks back at her. "Thanks for the vote of confidence, though. I really do appreciate it, even if I don't sound like it." and he flashes her the biggest smile he can muster. 

(And this is how the aurors know Riddle is affecting Harry — the smile is all teeth, and the boy doesn't even seem to realize it.)

 

* * *

 

**_Four Days Earlier_ **

Harry was unsure if he cared about Tom following him or not. 

If the other boy stayed in the hall, he would, no doubt, be found by other members of the household. And, maybe that was something Harry should try to avoid. Maybe that was one of those undesirable outcomes that were biting at the back of his better judgement — gnawing for any scrap of attention they could find. However, his head was beginning to pound with his pulse and the blood rushing in his ear was becoming a river and it felt like if he didn't do something soon, it would all come bursting out of him. 

He had nothing left of him to care. 

He burst through his kitchen like a bullet and immediately went to a cupboard-within-a-cupboard and just started pulling out bottles. They were all of different brands, sizes, and prices. Some were bathed in dust and some still had a tag on them. Anything assumed to have alcohol in Harry's line of vision was soon stood proudly among others on the ancient island in the middle of the kitchen. 

He didn't hear the door open as he popped the corked off of a long-necked, yellow bottle and began drinking. 

"You have no elegance, Harry Potter."

As the bottle finished draining itself down his throat, Harry tried to convince himself this was normal. When the bottle was empty, Harry didn't even bother to set it back on the counter. It dropped the floor before the taste had settled in his mouth, and he took nothing more than a tight breath before he attempted to begin on a second, half-finished, red bottle. 

 _Attempted_. 

A cold, surprisingly soft hand knit itself around his wrist and tugged it away from his mouth. "Give me that. No class at all."

Harry looked up at the body the hand was connected to. 

The long hand was extended seeming to ask for the wine instead of taking it outright. It certainly made normalcy a harder farce to play at, as the sight of Tom Riddle asking for anything — vocally or otherwise — hit him like a tentative freight train. 

Or maybe that was drinking.

Riddle took a step forward, and Harry unconsciously took a step back. His eyes twitched, unable to hold themselves in his sockets — they flitted up and down Riddle's profile defensively. He could imagine himself looking not unlike a cornered animal trying to measure its predator. Riddle's features were more unserpent-like as he had ever seen them before. His eyes were a dark, deep violet ( _Riddle's step forward, Harry's step back_ ) and his face was fuller, though still impossibly thin. His hair was still the elegant, swept curls it had been, if not thicker, in contrast to the Diary Tom. ( _Riddle's step forward, Harry's step back_ ) He was, truly, a perfect replica. However, this Tom had a deal more of . . . _life_ , in him. ( _How long was this going to go on until Harry hit the—_ )

_Wall_

Despite his growth since Second Year, Riddle was still on the brink of towering over him. Riddle was close enough to breathe on, and Harry only had to gently tilt his head to look him fully in the eye. It only took a moment of that before Harry was back to staring straight ahead at Riddle's chest. Harry swallowed imperceptibly, and pressed his fingertips against the other boy's chest. Staying silent, Harry stepped around him and made his way over to island.

He heard a scoff behind him. "So, you're not speaking to me? Is that it?"

Harry rolled his eyes. "I wasn't speaking to you in the first place." _You're dead._ "And, _you_ didn't answer _my_ question." _I killed you and you're supposed to be dead. Both times._  

He heard shifting and the sound of glasses being set on wood, and still did not turn. (Maybe this was another bad decision — keeping his back to Riddle. Maybe he should stop.) "Oh, _everyone_ knows who _you_ are. _Nobody_ can _shut up_ about _you_."

Harry turned on his heel, bottle in hand, and looked at Tom with a disgusted smirk on his lips. The other boy was sitting on one of the counter-tops that played border around the cooking area. "That doesn't really help me, Tom."

"Well too bad," he heard Tom mutter, and from his tone, Harry could wager a guess he wasn't supposed to hear that. 

He didn't care about conversational etiquette right now, though. He just had to get this something more in his system ( _he needed room to **think** , he needed room to **breathe**_ ) so that he could do one of his Adult Things or scream or put his fist through the wall. Harry set his teeth. "Why are you here?"

" _That_ ," (Riddle gestured emphatically with his arms.) "I _don't_ actually know. I _would_ like to find out."

"What do you mean?" Inverse of his regular problem, the questions came out much gentler than Harry had originally intended, and he was certainly blaming the drinks for this. 

A manic cackle visibly bubbled in Riddle's chest and came bursting out of him like foam from a champagne bottle. (Harry thought he was about to faint at hearing _Tom Riddle laugh_.) " _I don't_ _know_ , you barbarian. I _told_ you that already."

"Do you know who you are?"

"Of course."

"And you know who I am?" 

"We've been over this—"

"What brought you here?"

"I already—"

"What do you want from me?" 

A beat of heavy silence. 

"Nothing." Tom closed his eyes, and his breathing slowly became deeper and louder. "Harry Potter, I don't think I want anything from you."

"Liar!"

And the bottles busted like landmines had been carefully placed in the middle of them all, and a wave of motion set them all off like falling dominoes. Glass flew everywhere, slicing the backs of Harry's arm, and a few of Riddle's fingers where he held onto his knees. There was a shrieking, and Harry assumed it was the intensity of the accidental magic. He hadn't heard in quite a while, but in that moment, the memories were crisp and this was the inevitable sound that accompanied them.

But, of course, _it didn't stop there_. Harry had officially lost control. The floodgates of his emotions were open and he couldn't reign himself back in now. Not after _that_ and not with _Tom Motherfucking Riddle_ , somehow _in his presence_ and _none of it_ making _any goddamned sense_. 

"I don't know what you want, you _bastard_ , but _of course_ you want _something_ from me: my life, my magic, my loyalty, whatever. Just—" He dropped his head, and stepped back to lean on the island, ignoring the glass slowly burrowing in his palms. "Just take it, _please_ , and leave my friends and this world _alone_. Just _go_." And he was shaking now. "Because— Because, I did my _fighting_ and my _harboring_ and my _cross-carrying_ and now I just want to _sleep_." He sighed and brought a hand to his face. He wasn't allowing himself to cry, but his body was definitely tightening itself to sob, curling in on itself like a fist ready to strike.

Harry had never felt more like a fist. 

Harry had never felt this much like a fire was ripping through him like a greedy child on Christmas. Had never felt more like there was a glass ribbon tying him together by all the microscopic aspects of his personality that he had always tried to learn to live without. And now here he was: standing for judgment without even knowing, without even trying to care. He was here standing, and without knowing it — without even bloody _trying_ — he had laid himself, soul bare and grotesque, in front of the person who had caused it to rot in the first place. 

And what does this catalyst do after such an event? 

When the catalyst is named Tom Riddle, apparently, it puts his hand against your face and says, "Harry, I've no intention of harming you."

And when one hears this? How do they respond? 

Well, when one is named Harry Potter, they punch Tom Riddle in the face and haul him over to the fireplace to floo to the Ministry. 

That's what you do. 

 

* * *

 

**_Now_ **

"You know, I think it was very rude to leave me before I had a chance to hit you back."

Harry was barely in the room before Tom's voice hit him. He didn't know how long the other boy had gone without talking or moving, but his voice didn't sound as unused as what should have been proportional to what Williams had told him of his silence. 

Harry shrugged, not feeling half as stressed as he had been a few nights previous. He new Riddle was harmless like this, and even if he had found someway to not be, Harry wasn't benevolent. True, he didn't have his wand and the room was technically devoid of magic, but that didn't mean he was bad with his hands either. 

He pulled the chair he had noticed earlier away from in front of the mirror. He had been told it had been pushed away in Jones' haste to leave the room after she was, supposedly, ''compulsed' out. "You think a lot of things _about_ a lot of things, don't you, _Tom_?" He didn't miss the other boy's small flinch at his condescending tone.  _Good._ "Besides, had you'd done that, they could hold you here on a real charge."

And wasn't that the truth? 

Harry had known when he had brought Tom to the Ministry that there wasn't much they could do until they had figured how Tom had got himself here and why. He hadn't committed a crime in this time, and until they could pin-point _when_ exactly Tom had come from, they couldn't charge him. They could keep him due to "fear of the fragility of the timeline" considering no one else had ever made such a journey before, but that was it. Their thread was short, and even though they were loathe to admit it, it was true. 

Riddle smirked at that, and Harry could imagine that he was on a similar train of thought. "Now, that can't be true. If it were, why aren't you in chains?" 

Oh, what a fun interaction that had been: 

_"Mr. Potter, what is going on here?"_

_"Everything is fine, Minister. Just get him some ice for when he wakes up."_

_"Why is he unconscious?"_

_"Because his name is Tom Riddle."_

_" . . . I see."_

Harry smirked. There was still a part of him that wanted to scream at Tom Riddle. A part of him that wanted to take the chair under his hands and throw it across the table and let whatever happened, happen. Instead, and moves it closer to the table and sits down in it. "You could say I have friends in high places, but I suppose that would be an understatement. There are more important questions to be answered, of course."

Tom simply nods at him to continue. 

"There are magic suppressors all around this room. You know that."

Tom nodded again, this time in confirmation. "I do. They have a version of them in my time, but from what I hear of them, they are only half as strong as the ones you have now. The aurors in my time mainly rely on the technologies within the binding chains they use." 

Harry nods. This is something he had actually learned recently, not because of anything Hogwarts had taught him, but only because the Ministry had had to strengthen the powers of the suppressors when mass interrogations of former Death Eaters began. It had always been assumed that Voldemort had stressed the importance of wandless magic as a defensive strategy, and some of his more devoted followers only served to prove that. 

They didn't use chains anymore, though, and even with the knowledge of the suppressors and Williams' and Jones' presence just on the other side of that mirror . . . he wished they still did, as barbaric as it sounded. Watching Riddle's long, thin fingers flexing and folding on the table-top made him feel uneasy.

"When  _precisely_ did you come from, then?" 

Whatever look Tom had had on his face was dragged off by inquisition and replaced with a thoughtful look. "You want the exact date, I suppose?"

Harry's hands knit themselves together in his lap under the table. "If you wouldn't mind." he gestured to the mirror. "They need it for documentation purposes."

Tom nodded, understanding. There was a heavy, cold shiver that ran down his spine. Harry knew it was wrong of him to think so, but he almost preferred red-eyed and cackling Voldemort. The sheer clarity and cognition in Riddle's eyes was haunting.Tom Riddle was being _reasonable,_ and that thought alone frightened Harry. It pressed at the back of his tongue and scratched at his throat.

He swallowed it without another thought. 

Tom smiled somewhat sheepishly, and looked up at him through his eyelashes. Harry's face remained like stone. "I'm afraid the exact date is lost on me. I've felt quite . . . fuzzy since I arrived. May, perhaps?"

"Have you not been able to remember anything else?"

Riddle gave him a deadpan look. "I don't think you thought that through very much before asking."

 _God save them all._  

Harry felt his cheeks heat up, and held no doubt that he was blushing. "Documentation purposes." he grumbled lightly. 

"Now, don't be ashamed. We all make mistakes. I _would_ ask that you not lie to me, _Harry_." A charming smile graced Tom's features, but it was one he didn't recognize. It wasn't like the vicious, thirsty smiles Harry had seen in Slughorn's and Dumbledore's memories. It was softer, and even though it was of a darker persuasion, it crinkled the bottom of his eyelids as if genuine. "I've paid you the same courtesy."

"What courtesy? Honesty?" 

Tom nodded, his smile softening even more. 

Harry scoffed. "Excuse me if I don't believe that."

And then there is was.

In a matter of seconds, all friendliness — if one could call it that — had seemed to leave the room in a vacuum. Riddle's mouth melted into a soundless snarl and his features darkened. His violet eyes appeared black and his nostrils flared a fraction. The room filled with a suffocating feeling of warning and danger, and Harry's fight-or-flight must have been off-kilter, because something about the aura made him want to—

"Look, _Potter_ , I don't know what I could have possibly _ever_ done to you, but I've already been through all this. My confession is with them," Harry didn't move when a finger extended towards the one-way mirror. "And you know there's no way I could have possibly lied. As far as the other night is concerned, you'll have to take me at my word. If you don't trust me now, I can be vouched for."

"What do you mean—"

"They've given me as much Veritaserum as my body would take." His voice was becoming both louder and harsher with every word spoken. "There's nothing more I can give you, Mr. Potter. What do you want from me?"

Harry contemplated. Riddle's eyes, now, were vulnerable, and more honest than Harry had ever seen them before. And he knew it wasn't real . . .  _He knew it wasn't real and you can;t trust him because that's what he wants this is what does to people—_

Harry swallowed clinging to the fact that his face, for once in his life, didn't betray how he was feeling. In fact, an outsider might mistake Tom for being the emotional one. 

Luckily, there were no outsiders here. 

"So," Harry began, tone neutral. "You have no idea where you've come from? How old you are?" If given a few liberties, Harry could guess. Tom had to be somewhere after Slughorn's memory and not long after the time of Myrtle's—

_Myrtle's death._

_The diary._  

 ** _His first Horcrux._**  

Tom didn't notice the gears in Harry's mind shifting, apparently, so he continued. "I told you: May. Early May, I believe."

"Of what _year_?" 

Tom perked at the urgency in Harry's voice, but went on to answer, "1943. Why is that so important?"  

But Harry was gone, thinking. "Look at me."

"Potter, what—"

" _Look at me_."

Tom's eyes snapped to his immediately, and Harry ignored the thrill that shot through him. This had to be what staring down the Devil was like. 

_His eyes . . ._

His eyes were _violet_. Tom's eyes were  _violet,_ not red; and his skin _creamy_ , not pale; and he was—

Tom Riddle was absolutely normal, and Harry Potter couldn't decide if he wanted to cry or laugh about that. 

"You haven't done it yet." Harry breathed. "She's still— _You haven't done it_."

"Done _what_?"

"Killed her." It was said before Harry could congeal the logical list of reasons why it shouldn't be. ( _Of why it was so stupid to be. Of why this could ruin things he didn't even know existed._ )

Riddle sat back in his chair, and that snapped Harry out of his own stupor. He hadn't noticed that he had been leaning in too, and as he settled back into his own seat, he realized just how close they had been. 

_Was . . . Was that **fear** in Tom's eyes?_

"I killed some—"

He felt movement outside the door before the door actually opened. He felt the air in the room shift before the door actually opened. It wasn't unlike a mass of people adjusting themselves in order not to touch a newcomer to a group. _And Tom definitely had something to do with it._

"Mr. Potter! Mr. Riddle! What a pleasant surprise!"

He was wondering when Shacklebolt was going to show up.  

 

* * *

 

"I'm not trying to _hide_ anything, Potter, I just don't know what's safe to tell him just yet."

"So your alternative is to just lock him in a cage and not tell him _anything_?"

They had been going in circles for a while now.

Harry wasn't quite defending Tom, but more his position. And yes, he understood about the delicacy of the _timeline_ and the _Wizarding World_ and the "possibility of the universe collapsing in on itself."

He _got that_.

He _understood_.

And maybe if Hermione had been there, off the bat, to shout the importance of it into his skull, he might actually care. 

But she _hadn't been_. 

And he _didn't_. 

Shacklebolt rubbed his eyes and sighed, clearly as exasperated as Harry felt. "Harry, I'm sorry, but what would you have me do? Hm? Let him roam freely about the streets?" Harry looked to the floor. This felt suspiciously reminiscent of the lectures he used to get from McGonagall. "And if he were to, say, _wander into a bookshop_? If he were to _read_ a _newspaper_? _What_ would you have me do?" 

"I dunno," he mumbled, because he's an idiot. "I just— I just know what it's like to be . . . kept in the dark."

Shacklebolt's expression softened, and his features settled themselves into sympathy. "Harry I truly am sorry. We've done everything we can to place him appropriately. Though your talk was a bit more insightful, we are still unsure from where he comes, or why he's here."

"What about your interrogations? Tom said he'd written a confession for you earlier?" 

The older man nodded. "Yes. I reviewed it, but it's sealed."

"Can't you release it? Just this once?" 

Shacklebolt shook his head. "It's sealed by magic."

"Unseal it!" It happened slowly, but he was able to realize how stupid and petulant he sounded before he received a parry. 

"Harry, you know the type of support I would need to unseal a confession. And if I _don't_ have Riddle's consent in the first place? It was a _magical confession_ , the entire document rests on the stasis of Riddle's magical core. Usually wizards are dead or in Azkaban when we have to unseal their confession, so their cores are quite—"

"Stable?"

The older man grimaced. "To put it into simple and crass terms. We don't have time for any of that anyway."

To this, Harry could agree. "And what about McGonagall?"

Harry had been surprised it had not been her pinching him by the ear and dragging him out of the interrogation room. He knew that if she had even got a whiff of this, she would've been here fighting with Shacklebolt herself. 

"She is being held for questioning. Apparently, she had been keeping him these last few weeks."

"Few _weeks_?" Harry crossed his arms, sure his eyebrows were hitting his hairline. "How long has he been . . . _present_?"

The man shrugged. "According to Minerva, he's been 'with us' since just after the battle."

Harry didn't really "know" this piece of information, more so did he "absorb" it. He was sure it would hit him later, but for now, he felt just being able to understand it as a fact was an accomplishment. "Are you charging her with anything?"

The man sighed. "We are doing everything in our power to not have to."

"And how is that going?"

"Well, we've record of Tom Riddle requesting to stay at Hogwarts over the summer of this year, anyway. He is not yet of age, and he technically had nowhere else to go. I doubt she'll have to be imprisoned, but there will be a record, and she will, at least, have to pay a hefty fine."

"And her position as Headmistress?"

A shrug. "Quite honestly, we are still trying to put together a functioning board. More than half the members, by the end, were Death Eaters or sympathizers. The Ministry and most other forms of anything _governing_ was so full of Voldemort's puppets . . . We're just trying to rebuild. Neither are in immediate danger, and we have no reason to believe Minerva would try to escape charges if there were any filed. I'm going to push a motion that she be allowed to keep her position until we can get around to reviewing her case." 

Harry nodded. It didn't quite sit right with him, but it was better than nothing. 

A few beats of silence passed as both men tried to gather and sort through their thoughts. There were so many questions they could — _should_ — ask each other. There were so many things to say and so many things to mean that Harry was just tired from trying to fathom. He felt that with many people who he had been particularly close with during the War, and as much sense as the emotions made, they were quite inconvenient. 

He schooled his features again and sat up straighter. "So," he started, his voice sounded much more confident than he felt. He was used to that sensation, but that didn't mean that he liked it. "What do we do about Riddle?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the chapter I have been waiting for! I know I've jumped around a bit, but I'm really no good with fillers (which will exist in this story, unfortunately, but whatever.) How did you like it? I know I'm going a bit off character for everybody, but I figure you kind of have to(?) Am I doing alright? I'm debating on what I'm going to do for the next chapter. This chapter marks the end of Frost's first stanza, and so I think the beginning of the second should be special(?) I know I have space-y updates, but it may be getting worse. My sister has just given birth, so I'm going to travel and check-out the baby. I'm also starting a new job this week, so there's that. I've also been neglecting my other stories, so those will be getting priority. I'm sorry. :( I won't abandon this or anything, nor am I saying I won't update this at all, it'll just be a bit more sporadic (if that's at all possible.) Please continuing reading and commenting, please. I can't tell you how many comments in my email inbox are starred. They're really what keeps me going with these. (Comment suggests or critiques or anything really.) Thank you all so much for keeping up with this and being so kind and lovely! (Also, warning, sassy!narrative)


	5. Play it Again, Sam

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> My little horse must think it queer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Vague, minor torture flashbacks coming at you fast with this one. If you are hyper-sensitive to this material, just skip the part in the * to * that I will provide so you don't miss anything pivotal! 
> 
> Don't examine this one too closely, folks. I can (probably) neither confirm nor deny anything. 
> 
> Thank you!

**_Sometime in the Not So Distant Past_ **

Hermione Granger had no qualms with domesticity.

The word itself was quite appealing to her, and the lifestyle it signified had always been something she strove for. Hermione Granger was all big, steaming mugs of hot cocoa in the dead night of Autumn; was sweaters that swallowed her whole; was tattered jeans that she should have thrown out years ago, but couldn't bear parting with. She was laughing too loud on very private phone conversations and a scowl at anyone who left a library book improperly filed. She was a bundle of fire red and golden apples sitting beneath a freshly picked tree. She was muddied shoes being left in a neat line in front of a door, and she was the wooden door itself. She was sheer white curtains in sea-side homes and dried sand on tan lines. She was quiet and the world was loud. 

Hermione Granger was a little girl once.

Instead of princesses, she would be read A Brief History of Time and Beyond Good and Evil before she went to bed. She was lulled to sleep, dreaming of the stars and cognitive dissonance, and nobody could ever decide if her head was stuck in the sky or if it was fated to sink to the bottom of the ocean with the weight of itself.

Hermione Granger forced herself to _become_.

Because Hermione was taught to roll up her sleeves from the moment the day started, to the second before it ended, if necessary. Hermione had taught herself about _Loyalty_ and _Devotion_ , and how to _bleed_ for what you believe in. She taught herself how to remain true to who she was, even if the root of her was tore out from her center. She taught herself that the cacophony of her hair was a blessing, rather than a curse, and even though she taught herself how to tame it, it still allowed her to hold an advantage of how she interacted with people. She taught herself to love her family and how to build one. (And maybe she didn't learn it all in appeasing order, but _whatever_ , she learned it anyway.)  

Hermione Granger tried to tear herself apart.

Because she was dirty, and because there was an _angry angry_ **_angry_ **  itchy beacon on her arm that said so in childish, taunting letters.

Because no matter how hard or how often she tried, she couldn't get the mark off of her.

Because no matter how much knowledge she had in that far-reaching mind of hers, she _couldn't_ —

Because it was a name that haunted her for so long, and she had _almost_ gotten rid of its affects.

Because she thought she could _just_ —

Hermione Granger then decided, _fuck that_ , and started the beginning of the rest of her life anyways.

And now she is someone else.

 

* * *

 

**_Now_ **

"I think your obsession with Chinese food is becoming dangerous." Draco stated, stabbed his chopsticks (oh yes, Hermione 'Motherfucking' Granger taught him about _and_ converted Draco 'Goddamn' Malfoy to the wonderful world of chopsticks in two months) into the white carton and set it gently onto the coffee table.

Hermione raised an eyebrow. "To be fair, this isn't _really_ Chinese food. It's just very excited chicken."

He barked out laughed at that, and it drew her back to a time when she would have referred him to a doctor for expressing such an unguarded emotion in he presence. (Now, though, she just hid a soft, fond smile behind her noodles. "You seem very confident about that statement, Granger."

She shrugged, setting her carton down as well and adopting a harmless frown towards the abandoned boxes on her coffee table. "As someone who's actually _been_ , this is just upsetting. And you can't even accuse me of being prejudice — they're Korean."

The space between his eyebrows creased and he cocked his head at her. "They are?"

Hermione rolled her eyes and slid off the couch. She could barely hear herself over the blood rushing in her ears from the new position. _How long have we been sitting here, anyway?_ "Well, like I've said, I've actually _been_ , half the pretty writing in the place is written in _Japanese_ , and 'Park' is a _Korean_ last name."

Draco looked as if he'd been personally offended by this information. "How long have you known and not _told me_?" 

She smirked. "I believe it was you that told me that an integral part of being a proper lady was to not kiss and tell?"

She finished gathering the empty, neatly folded, white cartons in her arms, and Draco made a sound like he's dying, and neither of them're wearing socks, and she's pretty sure that the fleece blanket they had draped themselves in probably reeks of lo mien, and, usually, she'd be in a fuss to change and air it before the smell settled (because _custom_ ), but all she can think is _this this this always just this._

 

* * *

 

_**Like, A While Ago** _

"You know, he's not a bad guy, Hermione."

They were finishing the dishes after Fred's 'official' funeral. They had been sitting in a comfortable silence, which Harry had broken with that remark. ( _No, Hermione. You've been talking since you got back in the house. It's just Harry. He gets it. You're okay. You're—_ )

"Hm?" She bit her lip when she looked up at him. She had been having these compulsions, when she looked at Harry, to just tell him everything that was on her mind. It felt a lot like being sick — you get the feeling welling up in your throat, dread and inevitability set in, and then . . . 

But she was Hermione Granger, and her body wasn't about to tell her what to do. 

Harry smiled one of his kind, half smiles and she knew immediately that he understood. "Malfoy. We talked a bit after his mother's trial and—"

He was cut off by the _clank_  of a plate hitting the bottom of the sink. When the reverberations of it hitting the bottom finally settled, he apparently decided on not mentioning it at length. (Hermione didn't _do_ petty, but if she _was_ being petty — just in that moment, mind — she had earned the right to do so.) Instead, he dried off his hands with a towel sitting on his side of the sink, and then proceeded to lift her hands out (careful of her bandaged arm) and do the same, speaking softly. "We talked a bit after his mother's trial, and he really does feel awful."

"That's nice."

"He apologized quite a bit."

"Swell."

"He wants to see you."

"No."

It had been like this since she, Harry, and Ron walked hand-in-hand back to the grounds of Hogwarts after the Battle. Everyone spoke to her, and she gave intelligent looks that proved that she understood what was being said, and then short, often terse responses that were rarely more than a few syllables at a time. Harry was the one that she conversed most with, next to Ginny. She could only manage to speak to people who wouldn't coddle her, but even that was sometimes difficult. 

He quickly pulled his hands away from her, but let them hover just above her shoulders. Before Malfoy Manner, she required physical comfort when she was upset. It wasn't something she sought out often, but those closest to her, for the most part, had picked it up along the way. After, though, it had been quickly been established that she couldn't be touched. 

"Hermione," Harry murmured, voice steady. "You don't have to do anything you don't want to. You don't have to see Malfoy— You don't ever have to see him again if you don't want. I'm just telling you so you know. Ron thought I shouldn't, but I figured you'd want to know."

And it made sense. In the cold, cynical, detached part of Hermione's brain, she could register the logic in Malfoy wanting to see her: he had never been a _bad_ person. He was a shitty, ignorant, bigot for quite sometime in his life, but that was when it was easy. That was when his life was nothing more than looking the part and flushing out everything that had been drilled into him. But, he was just as much a victim of this war's tyranny as she was, if not more. She knew that he was never offered a chance either, and she didn't _really_ blame him for anything substancial.

But in her nightmares . . . Cold, cynical Hermione didn't exist when she had nightmares, and therefore, could not justify the forever-withstanding imagine of Draco Malfoy standing by while his psychopathic aunt tortured her. Cold, cynical Hermione didn't exist in her flat, or her silenced, warded room at Grimmauld when she woke in a cold sweat and ran to the bathroom before she was sick on herself. Cold, cynical Hermione didn't exist in the increasing hollowed slopes of her hip and cheek bones; didn't exist in the diameter of violet circles blossoming around her eyes; didn't exist in the boiling hot showers and the mild burns on her hands and back.

That Hermione was trying to exist now, but it only added a phantom pressure at the front of her head.

She shook it off when she felt real sensation on her body. 

Her shoulders. 

Harry was touching her shoulders.

( _It's fine—_ )

She looked at him almost derisively and shook her head. "He didn't do anything to me."

Harry shrugged. "He didn't make your life any easier. At every corner, he tried to make your life as hard as possible, just for the fun of it."

She couldn't argue that. "That's nothing now—"

" _And_ ," he continued giving her a stern look. "I'm sure he just wants to apologize now. He might be returning for Eighth Year, and I'm sure he just doesn't want it to be . . . _awkward_."

She had a contention for that, truly, but then Harry flashed her one of his open, lopsided smiles and she couldn't shoot him down. 

She sighed. "Whose side are you on, anyway?" But it had no bite to it, only a feeble throw of someone too tired to care for convention. 

He was grinning now. "Well, if I had to pick," he laid his arm across her shoulders and tucked her into his side. "I'd be on yours, obviously. Since I'm not, I'll just leave it undeclared? Think of me as a . . . mercenary?"

She smirked at that, jabbing him lightly in the ribs with two of her fingers. "Sometimes I hate you, you know."

"No you don't." And he just ruffled her hair. 

They didn't talk about it for the rest of that night. They helped everybody get settled in the house, and moved on to their nightly routine of attempting (and ultimately failing) to fall asleep, meeting up in the kitchen to drink cocoa in silence, and contemplating what their lives were now. 

That night, it was the precipice of change that kept Hermione awake and turning.

(She still wanted to vomit if she thought about it too much.)

 

* * *

 

The next day, her constitutions, probably, were stuck at the feet of the sheets she was laying on.

She hadn't gone back to sleep after parting with Harry at dawn. She had sent him off to bed, made some more plans for the memorial they wanted to have for Fred at the Burrow, made a platter of breakfast and set out fruit for the earliest riser in the house to come across (it would be Fleur, probably) with a small note left on the table saying that she would be back later.

She felt stupid. 

She felt stupid as she wrapped her coat around herself so she could walk to the edge of the property, as to not set off any wards Arthur or Molly had neglected to mention to her when she apparated. She felt stupid as she penned one of the most inarticulate, frigid, and rude letter she had ever written at the foot of her bed, before jamming a seal onto it and apparating to an owlery. She found one sufficient enough, paid a vendor, and sent it off. She felt stupid as she _walked_ home without looking at anything but an invisible path no one else could see. She felt stupid as she changed and got into bed and just _lay_ there waiting for a response she didn't think would even  _come_. 

But, of course, one did. 

 

* * *

 

**_Now_ **

"Are you commandeering my couch again?" Hermione asked over the running water of the sink. 

She didn't know what answer she was looking for. 

On one hand, she appreciated it when he stayed. The nights he did stay, her nightmares weren't quite as suffocating. It was easier to wake up and calm herself down and stay quiet as she did so (because even though her room had countless wards and quite a substantial _silencio_ on it, it didn't hurt anybody if she _didn't_ wake up screaming the air out of her lungs.) Maybe it was the subconscious response to having another living body in the house, or maybe it was—

She didn't know what it was, exactly, but it was better than the alternative. 

And then, sometimes, she hated when he was there. It wasn't that there was an inconvenient adjustment to her lifestyle, by any means (he was usually gone by the morning and the blankets he slept with on the couch were clean and neatly folded, and she usually didn't see him again until later that evening, where they would, sometimes, have a pleasant meal and talk about anything, really.) But when he was there, she tended to notice more when he _wasn't_. When he'd spend a night back at Grimmauld, she couldn't _not_ notice his absence, and it _pulled_ at her. It was ridiculous, really. Like there was a fish hook stuck on something just behind her sternum and whatever was on the other end wouldn't rest until—

And after that, she just didn't know. Her mind couldn't form a train of thought around _missing Draco Malfoy_  — it _refused_ to. 

Sometimes, he would be up and moving around before her, and make them both breakfast and coffee. (Once, he had brought soup to her bedroom door for her because he had believed that she was sick, and he didn't want to be intrusive.)

It was little things like that that made her . . . _notice his absences_ more. 

It was irritating as all hell. 

His answer was hesitant. "I was hoping to, if that'd be alright with you. I mean, if you have something going on, I completely understand. Or, if you're just—"

She turned to look him dead in the eye, effectively cutting him off. "Draco, you're always welcome here. I'd hope you would've picked up on that by now." 

When she looked him over completely, she saw his hands knotting together in his lap, and a look that suggested that he might thoroughly welcome and enjoy a gaping, man-eating hole in the earth to come and swallow him right up. 

Hermione had never before found embarrassment adorable, but as she saw his cheeks pink and his eyes travelling the room in search of anything that _wasn't her_ , she couldn't help but find the whole thing endearing. 

"I-I just— I didn't —"

And she just smiled, the same way she would at Teddy or confused first years: with teeth and warmth and too much feeling behind it that she should be better at concealing at this point. (Just because she didn't smile often anymore, didn't mean that she couldn't. It was the only thing that she could do that she did the exact same way now as before the War — it was the only thing the War didn't take away from her.)

"I-I've got to go get my clothes from Grimmauld." he said under his breath, still not looking at her. She tried to catch his eye again, but as she tilted her head a fraction, she thought she saw—

No. 

None of _that_ now. 

She looked at her feet as he rushed towards the door, (the anti-Apparition wards in her apartment were annoying, but they made her feel just a bit safer at night) and mumbled goodbyes under his breath. She didn't go to open the door for him (she never did, _why would it matter now?_ ), and so maybe _that's_ why she didn't notice him just standing there for a moment in front of the door. Maybe that's why she didn't notice the way his hand stilled on the door handles, and how he seemed to be staring at it with enough intensity to burn a hole in it. Maybe that's why she didn't notice the _one, two, three_ seconds in which he evaluated the entirety of his life choices, and—

"You can stop sparing me by wearing those damn sweaters all the time, Granger. It's _exhaustingly_ warm in here, and I already know what's _underneath_ the sleeves." It was said with no venom or spite, and it amounted to nothing more than a soft declaration, closed by the clicking of her locks. 

She didn't quite notice the infallibility in his tone — how, he thought, he _knew_  he was right, and nothing she could say would prove him otherwise. She didn't notice his pained expression, like he was prying the words from his throat with pliers and presenting them to her like a broken-toothed trophy. 

Because it was _quite_ hot in her apartment. And, part of the reason she wore giant sweaters (aside from the fact that she got cold quite easily, and were quite comfortable) was because she didn't want to . . . _inconvenience_ him with her scars. The were in a much lighter, thinner bandaging now, but it was still that same reminder. 

And she really didn't know if he would come back. 

And she didn't know if she wanted him to.

(On her way to bed, she turned down the thermostat ten degrees anyways.)

 

* * *

 

**_Then_ **

> _Don't blame you for Bellatrix._
> 
> _Shouldn't feel guilty for the war._
> 
> _Wish you all the best in life._
> 
> _Don't want to see you_
> 
> _\- HG_

It was criminal, her letter. It was more a _note_ than a _letter_ , but even if she dressed it in the prettiest dress of eloquence, the message was still the same. She hoped it's minimalism punctuated her point, but as she sat at the desk in her bedroom reviewing Muggleborn Ministry decrees (Shacklebolt was one of the few people who recognized that she was perfectly function, _thank you_ , and was actually eager to work) she heard a gentle tapping against her window that dispelled her misguided hope. 

> _Hermione,_
> 
> _I can understand if you don't want to speak to me, but if you would just see me, please. Potter accepted my apologize, and I'm even on amicable terms with Weasley now. It just . . . It wouldn't be right to leave things the way they are. I've done you wrong the most, even before the war. I have no desire to continue in faux-absolution when I haven't properly apologized to you. Please? You can pick a meeting time and place. Just please give me a chance to explain myself._
> 
> _Regards,_
> 
> _DM_

The letter was ripped and thrown back out the window before she could make it to the end. 

 _He_ needed absolving?

 _He_ needed peace?

The phantom of the empathetic girl she used to be beat the confines inside of her.  _He was just a boy when this all started, forced to make impossible decision. They couldn't all be right or ineffectual._

And she _knew_ that. She _understood_. She _accepted_ —

The bird — a fucking _falcon_ — flashed its wings and seemed to huff in annoyance. 

She raised an eye brow and clicked her teeth. "You're something like your master, did anyone ever tell you that?" 

The bird's demeanor softened at the newfound attention. It's head titled to the side, and gave her an intelligent look, helping her none in trying to figure out how to get rid of it without sending back anything substantial. (Anything that might give him hope.)

"Just stay here, will you?" She didn't dare touch it, but the bird seemed to make itself more comfortable on her windowsill as she sat back down at the desk and took out parchment and a quill:

> _Thank you for the effort. V. appreciated._
> 
> _You, of course, are forgiven for all transgressions. You were a child and it was a war. We all made bad decisions._
> 
> _I have nothing else to say and you have nothing else to ask for._
> 
> _\- HG_

That was fair and concise. 

She felt proud as she tied the message to the bird's foot and jammed a cracker in its mouth. 

 

* * *

 

She felt . . . _even_. 

She had finally appeared to have the upper-hand on Draco Malfoy, as he had sent no correspondence back to her, requesting her permission again. She had heard nothing about him, and was not yet at the point in her Documentations that she had to mention him at great length. 

Death Eater trials were going exceptionally well, if a bit violent. The magicless cages they kept the Death Eaters who were sane and stable enough to have a fair trial, reminded her of the glass box in the Eichmann trial. It reeked of ridicule and vulnerability, and the room full of people who wanted his head on a chopping block didn't help lighten the atmosphere. 

It was _tense_. 

Savage, almost. 

If she had ever been to a proper riot, she might have compared it to the feeling just before all hell broke loose and the first shot was fire. No one left the room without something to show for it: sweat stains on their dress robes, red faces, tear tracks, white knuckles, bloody lips, shaking hands, etc. They went through memories and documents and Oaths and spells. They laid out the lives of these men and women who were so much more complicated then she could have ever thought. She saw Death Eaters, their sympathizers, and some Dark creatures effectively (metaphorically) ripped open for all who would care to judge to do so. 

And for the most part, they did. 

The magical community lashed out at every person suspected to be Dark or traitor swiftly and violently. Newspapers weren't quite fully functional, and so it was all gossip and chatter and pointing fingers, Hermione couldn't help but be reminded, slightly, of the Salem trials. 

But she felt okay, for the most part. 

She was less afraid of Dark magic, now that she could separate it from her previous beliefs: It was the wizards and witches that had done the cruelty, not the spells or the potions. Dark magic didn't quite _cause_ people to go mad — they allowed themselves to—

None of it mattered now anyway. She had just attended Yaxley's trial — which just so happened to be the last trial that she was asked to be a witness for — and she was finally free to never have to go to another one again, luckily. 

And she felt free, even when she heard an insistent knock at her door that suggested she should feel otherwise. 

And then she thought for a minute (about how all of her friends knew to owl or send a Patronus before they came over, about how she wasn't expecting a delivery of any sort, about how she had been purposefully avoiding some thinly veiled threats she received when she left the Ministry every other day, about how she couldn't Apparate, about how she only had two windows in the entire apartment, about—)

"Granger!" A muffled, posh accent seemed to dribbled through her door.

Her eyes widened, and everything seemed to happen in slow motion: she threw a quick look towards her door to make sure it was locked ( _of course it was; when was it not?_ ), quickly, and quietly dashed into her room, locked her bedroom door, and huddled in the corner behind it. 

Draco Malfoy was at her front door. 

She had not _planned for this_. 

This was—

She heard the door click open felt herself — her thoughts, her plans, her instincts — freeze. She was stiller than a statue with something that was not quite grace and not quite stealth. And it couldn't be fear, she realized, because when she was afraid, she fought. When she was afraid, she dismantled governments and unlocked ancient riddles. When Hermione Granger felt fear, fear recognized its mistake and kindly bent itself at any angle she requested as to stay out of her way. 

This was something else. 

Because _nothing_ should have been able to get through her wards. _No one_  should have been able to break her Locking Spells or deadbolts so quickly. (And it was moments like these when she would have to admit  _Yes, Fred, Boggart security systems could actually be practical. I'm sorry I ever doubted you._ )

And then something clicked to Hermione, all in a matter of seconds:

One, if someone (magical or not) were here to kill her specifically, they would have been searching her flat by now, unless they were hiding. (And this consideration was null, due to the fact that Hermione was _in_ the only hiding spot that her, admittedly, minimalist apartment offered. People rarely stayed in her temporary arrangement anyways, so it was quite the open, modest floor plan. Her room and the bathroom connected to it were the only closed off areas of the place, unless this intruder wanted to hide behind her front door, which made increasingly little sense because she could still hear footsteps.)

Two, if someone was going to rob her, they would have either left, or made it to this room as soon as they discovered the open areas had nothing of value in them. (Same went for the closed off areas too, to be frank, but they held value to Hermione, so she'd probably only admit that to herself.)

And she didn't hear _approaching_ footsteps. (instead she heard . . . Well, she thought she heard—)

"Fucking, ow, why the hell would—" Followed by another litany of expletives and a litter of pacing. The footsteps were heavy with their own hesitation in something, yet she could tell the person doling them out was not a heavy person. In fact, it almost sounded like—

"Fucking hell, Granger!" 

It almost sounded like _Malfoy_. 

Probably because it _was_. 

And this all settled into Hermione's mind quite nicely (the increasing sound of footsteps, however, did not) but she still couldn't move. She couldn't breathe, she couldn't think, she couldn't see straight, she couldn't hear anything over the sound of water rushing and her brain squeezing and—

*

_Screaming._

_Someone was screaming. It was probably her, judging by the glass shards in her throat and the fact that there were no glass shards in her throat and did glass feel? Was she becoming glass? She remembers learning about glass once in a lazy after noon in a forest a long time from now or a long time ago or whichever one meant that it wasn't happening here and her father (did she have a father? where was he? was he here? she hoped not, probably) pulling a long piece of glass from her arm and the smell of warm metal and sticky and cold and warm and numb all running up and down her arm like a little race like a little race of raindrops running outside the car window and if she just looked at one long enough it would—_

_"You'll tell me if you know what's good for you!"_

_It would—_

_screamingscreamingscreaminglittleboycryinglittleblueeyedcoboltboycryinglittlecrying_

_"Speak! You **filthy mudblood**!"_

_It would—_

_**screaming** and **breaking** andthecobaltboy **crying**_

_It would **win**._

*

"Granger?" the voice was much softer now. "Granger, is that you?" 

She couldn't speak. She opened her mouth, and could feel her lips twitching in the corner. Her teeth seemed to chatter, so she clamped her lips shut again. 

"Granger—?" 

Her side was moving ( _not your side, the door, the door is moving **it's going to be fine** you're **fine**_ ) and her body locked up again, spine straightening against the back of the wall, teeth vibrating under the strain of pressuring her jaw was applying, hands shaking, and knees rattling together like marbles in a can. She couldn't move, but her breath was coming easier and she could vaguely hear over her heartbeat and blood rushing. 

"Granger, what are you doing? Why are you on the—"

" _Leave_." Hermione Granger did not growl, you see, but it was a sound that made her completely understand and accept the fact that she had derived from something that hunted what it ate. 

He looked afraid, but not enough. "Granger, just get out from the corner and just—"

And he wasn't afraid of her. In the background of the cacophony in her head, she assessed his person and was able to established that he didn't have his wand in hand, he was much more skeleton-like than she had ever remembered seeing him before, and he wasn't afraid of what he was seeing. 

She blinked. "Leave!" Sane. Simple. Mono-syllabic. She wanted to ask why he was here and what he wanted from her and why he couldn't just leave her the hell along, but there was no one there to pull the words out of her, and they were stuck at the back of her throat. 

He straighten his posture, but didn't get any closer to her. He scanned her once, and then tried eye contact. "I just wanted to speak with you, Granger." His voice was higher and scratchier than she remembered. 

Unsurprisingly, she was invited to the Malfoy trial as a witness, but was not actually required to go (Shacklebolt got her testimony in private while she was busy trying to help rebuild the government), so her last memory of his actual voice (saying anything more than a mumbling string of pleas) was closer to the end of sixth year. 

He looked weak now, but something about him was  _Strong._ Something about him seemed tougher than he ever had been before the war, which was odd: if any one should have felt strong, or more confident, it should have been her, and Harry — people who were specifically targeted day in and day out by name because of the blood in their veins or the name matched to their faces. Not Draco Malfoy — not someone who was so close to Voldemort that they got _hugs_. He was a child, yes, but a _protected_ child. (And had the war been won in favor of his side, he would have been the child to be offered part of the world.)

And yet here they both were: he had her (unintentionally) backed into a corner with his mere presence, and he was looking at her like she had the ability to destroy him where he stood. 

Her voice was surprisingly even, and she hadn't noticed that her hands had been shaking until they just stopped abruptly. "Well, I told you: I don't want to speak to you."

She didn't want to convince herself she cared about the hurt look that caressed his face, before it passed, in favor of a more stony look. "Why?"

She unconsciously raised her arms and wrapped them around herself. " _Excuse me_?" And it was supposed to sound powerful and even a bit offended, but it only managed to sound small and unsure. 

He closed the door completely this time, and Hermione immediately missed the pressure it provided. He took a small step towards her, but nothing more when he saw the flinch that involuntarily shuddered through her. "Why don't you want to speak with me? You said you didn't blame me. You said I shouldn't feel guilty."

"You shouldn't." Short. Clipped. Automatic, but no less sincere. He shouldn't feel guilty, but he also shouldn't be here, right now. 

"But you don't trust me?" he cocked his head to the side and slowly inched his hand out to her, as if offering her help up. She didn't take it, of course, but with _that look_ he was giving her — all _shining_ and _considerate_ and **_pleading_ **. . .

Something dark inside of her lashed out, violently for a moment, and she thought of what he might sound like crying . . . Crying and pleading with her . . . _Begging—_

"Hermione?" his hand moved a bit closer, and a the porcelain water basin she had on a vanity in the corner of her room imploded. 

Neither of them flinched at the sound, just continued to look each other in the eye. She had that overwhelming sense of feeling again, like every nerve was inflamed and reaching out for sensation, firing neurons at any and all contact her skin had (with the sleeves of her robes, with the wall somewhat kitty-cornered to her back, _his eyes practically drilling holes in her head_.)

It was all too much within nanoseconds, and she quickly scrambled to her feet. She didn't remember clawing her door open, or stumbling through her apartment, trying to blindly make it back to the kitchen in search of her wand. She didn't remember finding it, nor did she remember unlocking and opening her front door and shoving him through it. 

Suddenly, she just snapped into herself, and her fingertips were jabbing his shoulders, and her arm was _on fire_ and she didn't _care_ about any of it. She just wanted him _out_ , in that moment, so she could go scream in her shower, or throw things, or set them on fire so at least _something else_ in the universe could feel and know just _exactly_ what she was feeling. 

She didn't notice the sleeve of her robes slid up until Draco stopped allowing her to manhandle him, and stubbornly glued himself in her doorway — half in the apartment, and half in the hallway. He didn't touch her arm, but when she noticed his glare directed at it, it was frozen mid-air. 

He didn't move to touch her. "Was it really that bad? What she did to you?"

She wanted to laugh. What he didn't know was that yes, technically, had she not . . . _self-operated_ , the damaged Bellatrix had caused would have had to've been bandaged for weeks to avoid infections and such. The incisions went all the way down to her bone, and no amount of spells or potions could make her body mend itself before it was ready to do so on it's own. What he didn't know, was that the hefty-looking, _warded_ wrappings spiraled all the way up her arm, too, because despite what the various mind-healers diagnosed, no one quite believed that Hermione wouldn't pull another stunt to try and remove her gratified appendage. 

And in this instance, she could just say yes, probably. It was the truth, after all, but not really. If he was being genuine, he would feel guilty with the information. If he was lying, it would make him feel satisfaction. 

She couldn't have that, now, could she?

She frowned, opting for as much truth as she could manage. "You could say that, I suppose." He was still _staring_ at her, and it was beginning to annoy her. "Bellatrix's magic was powerful enough to cut, not only through my skin, but travel down to the bone."

Malfoy scoffed. "And those idiots and St. Mungo's—"

She cut a glare of her own, and he immediately stopped talking. "You already know that it was a cursed knife. There's not much they can do but assist in my body's own, natural healing process." And she took a moment to consider, before adding: "It's not like I helped them any."

"But— Wait, what?" He looked truly confused this time, not just agitated. 

Her frowned deepened, and she wrapped her arms around herself again. "I couldn't live with it, if I'm being quite honest with you." She waited before continuing. She knew it implied something much worse than what she had actually done, but the more she spoke, it was a wonder he hadn't been scared off yet. She was waiting for some form of rebuttal or rebuff, but instead, just received more intense eyes contact, and a small gesture for her to continue. 

She didn't know who this was going to be more painful for. 

"I had a few errands to run the night the Battle ended. You could say they didn't end well, and I decided I couldn't carry this with me anymore . . . This _brand_." She reached up and pushed a flyaway out of her face. She dropped her eyes, and look at the floor just behind him. Realizing she must have looked like she was cowering, she jutted out her chin, and dropped her shoulders back. This was her story, and she wasn't ashamed of that. 

What's the worst he could really say to her?

She didn't see him bit into his bottom lip — _hard_ — and she could just barely make out the way his fingers at up the base of his palm — _harder_ — and it's left to be seen that, if she had noticed, if she would've _cared_.

"Well," he says, more awkward in that moment than she thinks she's ever believed he's had the capacity to be. "I-I thank you for y-your . . . your _honesty_. Y-You've made it clear why you don't want to speak with me, and I suppose I should leave you alone now."

And he turns, quickly, on his heel, headed for the end of the short hall where the stairs would be waiting to carry him down and out of her building. 

She gets an urge just then, the image of his painfully apologetic face burned into the backs of her eyes. And this urge — she doesn't know what it is, exactly. Only that it bubbles up inside of her, and presses against the back of her tongue, until her mouth is practically forced open by it and she calls his name. 

He swivels so fast, he actually falls down in front of one of her neighbor's doors. "Yes?" He looks up at her through eyelashes and the fringe of his uncharacteristically untidy hair. 

She resists the urge to laugh, but she allows herself to smile slightly. From the look on her face, she must look manic. "I know that sometimes . . . it can all become a bit _much_. I know your parents are in line for a trial, along with a lot of your friends, and your friends' parents." The words practically tumble out of her, but it doesn't make her mean them any less. She looks down at him and feels raw, like everything has been ripped off or swept away. Everything is open now, and in this hallway, they're the only two people in the universe who exist to hear any of it. "You've been very brave, Draco. Well done."

And she doesn't offer him comfort. She can't, she decides, so she simply she ignores the look he throws her to quietly shut the door. 

She breathes in deeply, finally, and uncurls her fingers. 

It's been a long day. 

 

* * *

 

She doesn't think about him the next day, or the day after that, because she's an adult with a life, and she's taken it upon herself to personally rewrite and edit and nine page concession for Dark creature reservation programs. It's the most selfless selfish thing she thinks she's ever done, because she's praised even more for her tolerant ideals by others, but her motivations are anything but altruistic. (She knows what it's like to be feared, hated, and spat on by a society you never asked to be a part of.)

It's boring as hell, really. No matter how she words it, no matter how she orders (and re-orders) it; it is the first time in her life she can say she's thoroughly disgusted by semantics.

She's two bottles of wine (something cheap she picked up in a supermarket a couple blocks away from her apartment) and six pages in when she hears it slip under her door. 

See, it's not that Hermione particularly _approves_ of drinking whilst writing one of the most important documents in modern history, but she reasons that, she edits sober, and it is possibly one of the most _boring_ things she's ever had the displeasure of creating. It balances out, she figures, and no one's there to tell her otherwise. 

But then, there's something under her door.

> _Hermione,_
> 
> _Have a lunch with me_
> 
> _DM_

She stares at it for a long time without actually reading it.  _Maybe I'm dreaming?_ Because under the circumstances, it seems highly probable. She's dreaming or she's gone mad or—

She flips it over, and soon, an address, a date, and a time make themselves known in the similar reverse-dissolving she's become accustom to over the years. 

 _Huh._  

 

* * *

 

And she goes to that lunch, because she's genuinely terrified of him breaking in again if she doesn't, and Hermione doesn't know what she would do if he caught her off guard again. That day, she finds out that, originally, he had broken in to leave flowers on her kitchen counter (white peonies, she learns a few lunches later, that his mother had recommended when he first introduced the idea of patching up old wounds) and a long, heartfelt letter about _change_ and _forgiveness_ and _obligation_ and all the stuffy, cliches that she assumed she might find in a Ministry send off speech, rather than anything created by _Draco Malfoy_.

He also admitted that _maybe_ breaking into her flat may not have been the wisest of decisions, and that _maybe_ he hadn't quite thought it all the way through before he (stupidly) listened to Pansy's advice to "take the initiative" and "put his best head forward." (Though, an awkward coffee run-in and a brunch later, and she learned that the second half of the advice involved Pansy telling him to simply strip naked, lie in her bed, and "see what happened.")

Needless to say, he had Vanished the flowers and pocketed the letter, and had been planning to leave before he found out she was there. 

And maybe, somewhere deep, where she knew nobody would ever find out, she could admit that the lunch wasn't actively the worst thing she had ever committed to. It was awkward as hell, sure, seeing as how she could just barely knit two functional sentences together, and he nearly knocked over every random thing in his line of vision. But he didn't stare at her arm (that was quite obviously cloaked in a Glamour) and she didn't stare at his, either (hidden underneath his very long, very thick sleeves in the middle of May.)

They just didn't acknowledge it. 

And after deafening amounts of silence, they finally just talked. She didn't know what sparked it, but when they started, they didn't stop, until both of their meals were finished, and the waitress informed them that they would have to leave if they weren't planning on ordering anything for dinner.

It was all very surreal. 

And after that, there was the aforementioned coffee run-in, where they hadn't _actually_ planned to meet, but ended up running into each other anyways. After that there was a brunch (which Harry had somehow managed to walk across them in the middle of) followed by a succession of inevitable, blurry meetings, until she finally let him into her apartment one night when they both, silently agreed that they weren't done pseudo-arguing about a specifically vague house elf bill she had edited, and re-submitted for a long overdue evaluation. 

It came to neither of their surprise when debating quickly became their favorite pastime. They would go at it about anything, and it never led to any serious altercations, bar the one about the harshness and severity of the Death Eater trials and sentencing which ended with them awkwardly avoiding each other for three days, and then Draco showing up at Hermione's with an apologetic half-smirk and two large bottles of wine that she couldn't read the label on. 

And if she ever had to say, it was in that moment that she knew that this wasn't a forgiveness thing. She knew that this wasn't some sort of moral correcting that he was using her for and that she was humoring the idea of. This wasn't him using her as a crutch or vice-versa or anything within the realm of that. Because the look on his face . . . it was raw. Hidden, fine: underneath the upturned corner of his lips and through his gaze, which peeked through his upsettingly long eyelashes.

And maybe he needed redemption. 

Maybe at first. 

But after that night, she had no doubt in her mind that that was the last thing in his when it came to her and their time together. 

 

* * *

 

_"So what exactly **did** happen?" _

_"What do you mean?"_

_"Why was your arm **completely** bandaged? You said . . ."_

_"I said that I couldn't live with it."_

_"And you said that you couldn't carry 'it' with you. You said that you couldn't **live** —"_

_"It wasn't a suicide attempt, if that's what you're asking. I didn't mean to be so cryptic with you, but I didn't know how to tell you, without . . . you know . . . **actually** telling you. And I wasn't ready for that then."_

_"But you're ready now?"_

_"I know, it seems a bit inconvenient, doesn't it?"_

_"A bit, I suppose."_

_"I couldn't live with it, I couldn't carry it with me, so I tried to cut if off. After I . . . found my parents . . . I couldn't handle it. Something just . . . **snapped**. I went back to the place I was staying, grabbed a knife, and went to work on my arm. I passed out, relatively quickly, and someone found me and took me to a hospital. I didn't think it was relevant at the time, but maybe you should know now."_

_"..."_

_"Maybe not?"_

 

* * *

 

**_Now, and The Morning After_ **

Draco returned with his things sometime later. The door to her bedroom was shut, the hall lights were on, and she hoped that it sent the right, passive-aggressive message she had intended:  _I'm not angry, but I don't want to talk to you._

It wasn't a message that needed sending. After the soup incident, Draco had not tried to approach the more intimate parts of Hermione's apartment without being pushed. They didn't address it, but it was a fact that they both silently agreed. If she thought about it enough, she felt bad that he didn't have his own space in her home. She had been looking to move for quite sometime, but her lease was up in October, and she figured she could stay with Harry for the short while between graduating and inevitably becoming an official, paid Ministry employee. 

The future, for the first time in her life, was not something Hermione Granger wanted to think too hard about. 

However, a hesitant knock at her door (and succession of curse words) wiped that from being an option. 

"Hello?" 

She opened the door to Draco (expected) looking down with a frown bolted into his features (unsurprising) and a deep, disgusting gash across his cheek (highly alarming upsettingly familiar.)

"Draco?" she said again, which seemed to get his attention enough to lift his gaze from the floor to her face.  _But he's not meeting my eyes,_ she noted, feeling that it was important but not trying to force the action.

"Hey," A quick smile flashed across his face for a moment, which was quickly followed by a hiss of pain. "I-I was just wondering if, um, if y-you could—" he gestured curtly to his face, which settled itself into a sheepish half-smile, lip curling on the uninjured side of his face. 

And she felt the weight in what he was asking her. She understood that he could have probably just fixed the wound himself with a few potions and a spell. She understood that it was partial vulnerability in his eyes, mixed with pain and exhaustion. She understood that she shouldn't even be considering anything right now, and should instead be interrogating him thoroughly while she made sure the whole thing was put to rights . . .

She _understood_ all that . . .

The problem was that he shifted his weight on his feet once more, like the simple act of standing was becoming difficult, and all that understanding just sort of melted away. 

"Oh!" she started. "Yes. P-please. Come in." 

She couldn't tell if he reached out for her or if she went to pull him in first, but they met somewhere halfway, and she ended up shouldering the brunt of his weight (a task easier than it should have been) on the short journey from her door to her bed. It was made, still, Hermione having elected to pace at whatever-ungodly-hour-it-was than to sleep, as she was sure she should have been. 

She helped him lower himself onto her side of the bed (unintentional) and quickly made work of assessing him. 

"I'm not," he gently tried to dissuade her, but she would not be moved, fluttering and hovering and gently tugging and _breathing_. Her caught her hands in a firm grip before they traveled any further down. " _Hermione_ ," he stressed. "I'm not injured anywhere else. Just my face," he brought her hands to the only visible wound to his person, as if to punctuate his point. He didn't lay her hands on him, leaving the option open (and thoroughly welcomed, on his end) before he let go. "I didn't want to bleed on the upholstery."

She glared at him, dropping her hands to her sides as she considered her next move in fixing him. "You walked in this weather?"

He lost a bit of his courage. "I did. A bit. I-I can't Apparate—"

"Of course you can't! You've never been able to!" 

"Why are you yelling at _me_?" 

 That gave her pause. She honestly didn't know. "Because . . . You were stupid." she huffed, before turning with a bit of a flourish and moved to the tiny master bathroom. She rummaged in drawers and under the sink for bandages, cloths, tape and a sewing kit.

It had never occurred to her to keep inventory of any sort of first-aid kit, even after the War. She could admit that it had its uses, but despite her upbringing, she couldn't help but be lulled into the false sense of security that magic couldn't fix everything. 

She found purchase in the middle drawer underneath the sink, finding wrappings of some sort, and a thin, pink, dishtowel she must have misplaced when doing laundry. She stood, and popped the mirror, searching for the mild pain killers and rubbing alcohol. When she finally had her items gathered, she began moving without thinking again, in a natural attempt to get back to a situation that needed her. 

"This is going to sting a bit," she informed him, lifting the corner of the cloth that was damp with the alcohol to his cheek. She hesitated a bit before finally pressing it to his skin. Ignoring his small hisses and groans of pain, she made quick work of cleaning and disinfecting his wound best she remembered from when her mother did it for her. It really had been much longer, and she hated the slight feeling of incompetence at not having all the variables, but she knew that she wasn't doing absolutely terrible, and that had to count for something. 

With her, admittedly, limited knowledge, she had determined stitches unnecessary. Her bandages would do, and if they didn't, there would be a way to fix it, she was sure. 

Draco was the first to break the silence, as Hermione was gathering her supplies again. 

"You could have done this magically." he observed, nothing telling enough to note in his tone. It wasn't something to goad her, simply something that could be answered to, or something that could be ignored. 

She chose the former before even thinking about it. "Yes." she said neutrally. "I could have."

He nodded, seeming to be a bit dazed. She took the momentary lapse in conversation to place the rubbing alcohol back into it's place on the hidden shelves. Popping the mirror back into place, she set to work attempting to strain the majority of the blood out of the cloth in the small sink. 

"You didn't." he called to her.

Watching Draco's blood circle in the sink should have turned her stomach, she knew, but it didn't. 

"I didn't." she agreed. There was an itch to push the conversation one way or the other: to shift gears into something proactive or defensive or combative or _something_. This fuzzy ebb and flow was starting to grate on her, but she figured that it was only fair to follow his lead considering she wasn't the one actively bleeding. "You didn't either," she pointed out. "And you had more time to think, apparently, than I did."

"I didn't really," she heard, as she slowly slinked back into the room. She paused awkwardly midway between her bed and the bathroom. She couldn't decide if sitting on the bed beside him was appropriate or not, so she just stayed standing. "I don't know why I came here," he admitted, in a slightly dazed tone. "I was just there, and then I had to leave, and now . . ."

"Now you're here?" she offered.

"Now I'm here."

"Well," she began, slightly more confident. "You're always welcome, you know. Until you give me a reason to, I won't turn you away."

At that, he smiled. Nothing cruel or mocking like she was accustomed to, but bright and sincere. "Hermione Granger, offering me a safe haven . . . Never thought I'd see the day."

Neither did she, but she wasn't about to say so. 

After no small amount of arguing with the slightly impaired (drunk?) Draco Malfoy _on_ her bed, Hermione was able to convince him to sleep. 

 _In_ her bed, no less. 

Her brain accepted that with the same grace it accepted Missing Draco Malfoy, which is to say Not Well. She finally felt compelled to be sick, but as she felt nothing rising, she slowly walked into her living room and collapsed onto the sofa, trying to make sense of what her life had been so far: bleeding boys, books, and proving everybody wrong. 

She fell asleep with her head tilted back slightly, and an old, tattered copy of a biography of Marie Antoinette's clutched a bit too tightly in her hands, knowing two things: something is terribly wrong, and she was going to have to find out about it herself. 

She woke up laying down, with a blanket wrapped around her. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is another one of those filler chapters, man, it's really messing with my mojo (that I barely had in the first place.) Mainly, it's just to give you some background you might need later on. *wink wink* So, anyways, I hope you liked it! Thank you so much for reading! 
> 
> P.S: What other point of views would you like to see? I'm sure there are some tense issues, but I am truly just trying to keep the story moving for the last three chapters. How did I do writing from the new perspective? How do you like the little pattern I've got going here? I know this one is quite a bit longer, but I wanted someway to get the exposition in for Hermione, because I believe we can all agree that she deserves to be more than just a plot device.


	6. Harry "110%" Potter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> To stop without a farmhouse near

This was _not_ what Harry was expecting. He knew it wasn't going to be something good, as nothing good had really been happening in the last few months. However, a man could hope.

A man could _dream_.

And, a man could be outrageously disappointed. 

"I was not expecting _this_." Harry said tightly to McGonagall, obviously hesitating to take the only open seat left in her office. 

The one adjacent to Tom _Fucking_ Riddle.

"Mr. Potter," she intoned from behind her desk, pointedly glancing at Riddle who kept his back to Harry. "I invite you to _sit_ , and make yourself _comfortable_."

"He won't sit next to me, Minny, you ought to know that." 

The voice shouldn't have come as much of a shock to Harry. The way it rolled and caressed and positively _slithered_ . . . He'd been through this before, is all. He'd made himself understand that not all monsters spoke with a deep, trembling bass that vibrated in your chest. (Hell, his murderer spoke like he was forever parched.) However, it was something royally upsetting to have to accept that the worst of them all sounded sweeter than anyone else who wouldn't go on to commit mass murder and almost jump-start the world delving into darkness. 

Harry could be _civil_ if he damn-well _pleased_ , but not being so with _Voldemort_ didn't say anything about his character. "Not of my own free-will."

McGonagall raised an eyebrow at him, half in humor and half as a dare. "It is a true shame, then, that I forgot to ask if you were willing. _Sit_ , Potter."

Calm. Even.

She had been _expecting_ him to react like this.

(Who wouldn't?)

He sat. He showed no reluctance — no sign that he was in anyway displeased with his verdict. He walked forward, bent at the knees, and lowered himself inch by inch until his frame made contact, and relaxed slightly. 'Relaxed' was a loose term, but it was enough so that his body wouldn't ache later with upsetting, bodily reminders of this little meeting. 

"Now," she started, somehow making eye contact with both of them at the exact same time. "I believe I owe you both an explanation. Surely, you both have questions?" 

They did, obviously. Harry could feel his boiling from beneath his skin, and he could smell Riddle's rolling off of his in waves. He had never actively, purposefully participated in power plays for personal gain, but he knew that he wouldn't be the first to crack in this. His question would reveal too much about him, and Riddle's would reveal too little. It took all his strength to re-attach to logic and remember that Riddle, not only younger than him, was much more in the dark than him. 

Still, that didn't mean he'd act as a doormat. 

She didn't seem to be biting. "Really? Nothing? I find this hard to believe."

" _I_ find it hard to believe," Harry started, keeping his eyes forward. "that someone could travel fifty five years into the future and not remember the circumstances under which he did so. And yet, here we are; the aurors and _Mr. Riddle_ were tasked with explaining it to me just this morning. Quite the surprise, if you can imagine."

Riddle scoffed, and out of the corner of his eye, Harry could see Riddle's fist clench in this lap. "And I find it hard to believe that someone as random, insignificant as you tell me he is could know so much about a random, insignificant student such as myself. And yet, here _we_ are."

So, that was how Shacklebolt explained away his temper tantrum? Interesting route, but Harry had to admit to himself that he hadn't left the Minister many options in damage control. The idea of concealing everything from Riddle still bothered him, slightly, but he couldn't help but see the logic in it. That, and it allowed for some, undisputed hope that Riddle could somehow change when he was thrust back into his own, righted timeline. 

The only thing that still bothered Harry on a moral level: this eliminated the _choice_. Voldemort would still exist within Riddle somewhere, even if he were to avoid the absolute fate in becoming him. That hatred and evil and ability would _still be there_ , at the base of him. 

But then again, 'something at the base of you' can't commit genocide. 

McGonagall sighed for what seemed like hours, and looked softly at the two in front of her. She looked something like the echo of sad, and Harry couldn't help but get that familiar itch behind his eyes; a memory was trying to crawl out to where it had no business being. 

"Mr. Potter," She lent forward with her crossed arms resting on her desk. "Mr. Riddle arrived the evening of May 2, 1998." She let the true weight of that settle upon him with a few moments of silence. "He was unconscious, but otherwise fine. He awoke a few days later in the infirmary with nothing more than scratches and bruises that Madame Pomfrey assumes are from falling a slight distance. I then took him to be held in a concealed compartment for his own safety."

"My own safety?" Riddle question, not sounding concerned one way or the other. "Is there a reason I should be at risk fifty five years from my own timeline?"

And there it was. 

Harry shifted slightly in his seat, thinking. Now, at least he knew Tom Riddle was no wounded thing. He was just as opportunistic and sly as he would come to be, but this was the base of it. His thinly veiled question relieved him to those who would look close enough to care, and Harry was searching microscopically. 

McGonagall didn't seem so attentive, as she continued. "Mr. Riddle, every precaution must be taken in a circumstance as this one. Be pragmatic: it is not only _your_ well-being that we must consider with every move, but the health and continuity of time itself!"

Diplomatic, inclusive, and completely well-thought. 

And giving him exactly what he was looking for.

"I suppose you've a point there," Riddle allowed, appearing to actually consider her answer. "However, as we've established that I didn't come here of my own free-will, was found without a time-turner and a wand, and can't remember anything, gesticulating as to why I was dragged here might prove more sufficient, no?" He looked between Harry, who was not looking at either of them, and McGonagall, whose eyes were cast downwards to her desk. "Or maybe, one of you could explain why Hogwarts is in absolute pieces, and why everybody I come into contact with refuses to give even the most basic of answers to any one of my questions?" Silence. " _Nothing_? Because there, _Minny_ , are my _concerns_."

Harry felt like he was going to be sick. 

(They begin speaking.)

Because at this point, _what was the point_? Of _his_ sacrifice? Of _everybody's_ sacrifice? What was the point of all that _work_ and all that _suffering_ , if now, only months later, he would have to sit in this same impossible office and hear the same impossible things from an impossible person who might just be the Devil himself, and know that answering with anything was just as bad as not answering, because his body was a broken bottle leaking everything he had to give into the universe and the world was never thirsty enough to just pop the lid and end his suffering?

(They begin shouting.)

The point, he thought, some semblance of himself resurfacing, is so that no one else has to sit in this impossible office and hear the impossible things from an impossible person who might just be the Devil himself. He did it so that no one else would have to, because the day Voldemort died, he swore that would be the last time anybody died for him, no matter how small and internal that death might be. He was done with the volunteer patsies with their faith and their praise and their loyalty, and he was done with the blood on his hands and tangled up in his hair and racing down his back like a shower of broken glass when no one was there to see it. 

(They were silent.)

And in his grief of this, he wanted to be silent.

And in his grief of this, he was Harry Potter. 

And in his grief of this, he speaks. "Can we have the room?"

* * *

_"I just with you would have been honest, Harry. I wish you would have told me that everything wasn't over yet. I could have— Dammit! I could have **prepared**! I could've have thought for a way out. This isn't fair! You're my best friend . . . This isn't **fair**!"_

* * *

Harry frowned.

"How'd it go with Minerva, Harry?"

Luna was sitting across from him on the countertop. She was still, with her feet occasionally shining forward and back, making on contact with with the cabinetry with a soft _thud_. Her head was poised, laying softly on her shoulder. 

He swallowed. "Uh, good. She wanted my opinion on reconstruction and the beginning of the school year. She offered me the position of Head Boy."

_She offered me the position of Head Boy so I could hide Tom Riddle in my dorm._

She nodded. "Well that's quite fitting." Her head shifted slightly and her back straightened. "I'm sure you hate that." she said, her tone focused and pointed. 

Harry licked his lips. "A bit. It doesn't matter, though. If I get Head Boy, it's expected. If I don't, that's expected too."

Luna's eyebrows pulled together a bit sadly, and her head tilted to the other side slightly. "I suppose. Fame has been called a curse by most people who have it."

Harry nodded. 

They sat silently, regarding each other:

Harry had always felt drawn to Luna. She was a peculiar thing, obviously, but there was an actual, graviton _pull_ he experienced with her. Maybe it was her oddness. Maybe it was her kindness. Maybe it was because he could live, without a doubt, knowing that she never expected anything from him. She _saw_ him, and that was rare. She didn't pull apart pieces of him and analyze or investigate or think . . . he was the sum of his parts with her, and not the reasoning for them, and Harry couldn't help but find that absolutely breathtaking. 

It was one of those things he missed and yearned for when it was right in front of him.

He stood to leave. (He had important business to attend to, of course.) As he passed by her spot on the counter, he felt a phantom hand glide down his arm, and he turned. "What about that boy you punched in the kitchen the other night?"

He closed his eyes, resigned.There wasn't much to say to that, he supposed, except: "Luna, I didn't punch him in the kitchen."

Because, if she was curious enough, she'd get to find out just who that boy was. 

She'd get to find out _very_ soon. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So . . . H-Hey guys. I know it's been forever, but I was settling into school and extracurriculars . . . But here I am! Please, as always, let me know what you think or how I can make the story better! Love you all! (Happy holidays, for those of you who celebrate any currently!)
> 
> This chapter isn't anything much, because I wasn't sure how to transition from point A to point B, but luckily, I've got a good idea of how to make it to point B now and I have a whole lotta time to write it. So, I hope to deliver another chapter within the next few days!


	7. Enjoy Yourself (It's Later Than You Think)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Between the woods and frozen lake

For some reason, he forgets what rain feels like. 

 _He lives in the Britain and spends the majority of his time in London, for Christ's sake._ Usually, he runs _to_ the rain on days like this: streams coming from the sky like a scattered river. His skin _itches_ for it, and nobody at Wool's is stupid enough to tell him 'no' anymore when he asks. It's the one foolish thing he ever does — just sits in the rain for as long as they give him. He's perfectly cordial, when allowed, and comes in with the given curfew. Hogwarts is a bit trickier, and usually, he won't dare unless the dungeons are empty, or there's some sort of excuse for him to be out. (There's nothing awe-inspiring about a boy sits in the rain and tortures people for fun, now is there?)

For being born in the dead of winter, it's almost spiritual for him. It reminds him of things he's never done and places he's never been to. Ridiculously sentimental things, but fitting things. These things aren't even nouns, they just _are_.

He doesn't think on the whole thing too much when he can help it (he usually can't help it), but when he does, he supposes it's quite the compliment to his personality: he is dry and unfeeling . . . but water is not. He has no mercy, and neither does water, but something about water is inviting. People jump into rivers all the time. He sees drowning as a sort of gracious death, like the killing curse: silent. Effective. Clean. 

He wouldn't know from experience, of course, but the point remains. 

The point: the rain. It's all a sort of ghosting experience for him now. Of course, Minerva allowed him to bathe while he was in her charge, but no matter how he tried, it wasn't the same. 

And Harry . . . 

Living with Harry Potter was odd.

At Grimmauld, he was just as isolated as he would be at the orphanage, but nowhere near as miserable or . . . _lonely_. He knew others were around and could feel their collective presence, but he seldom ever saw or heard them. Harry gave him a room somewhere up a few flights of stairs. It was dark and gloomy, and dust blanketed every inch of it, but all he had to do was stand aside, and within a few minutes, Harry had transformed the room completely. It was the first time that his own absence of a wand and greater extension of his magic had truly come to his attention as anything more than a nagging, subconscious thing that he only thought when performing simple tasks that were almost amiss to him without it.

They danced around each other for the first few days: Tom trying to gather as much as he could from his interactions with Harry, and Harry, apparently, doing the same. Harry fed him, found him clothes, provided him with various methods of mundane entertainment in the form of some of his old textbooks. He didn't speak unless it was necessary, though, which Tom would look into as soon as he had some fucking books. In his second week, Harry was still escorting him to and from his room (silently) until he finally stressed that Tom wasn't being kept here, and could come and go as he pleased. 

 _Go where?_  he would argue and stay put. Not, necessarily because he was without the option of a different place to be, but because being somewhere else wouldn't answer any of his questions. He would wait for what he wanted, and when Harry was just about ready to give it, he would—

But right now, he wanted something he could take, and there was nothing wrong with that, was there? 

He just needed to figure out how. 

* * *

 "You . . . want to go outside?"

Tom didn't know if it was shock or consideration on Harry's face as a thoughtful sort of silence took care of his features. It was like he was reading off a prompter or a list of approved gestures and fragments. His words were precise, and that sort of slow you get when your mouth is cold and you can't feel your tongue. 

He nods with two swift jerking motions. It's absolutely degrading, but he knows that there's no other option: it's either two birds with one boulder or a skipping stone against an airborne flock. "I would like to go outside."

Harry nods again, smoother and surer than Tom is sure he feels about anything. "Why are you asking _me_?" It was simply exact, no harshness or coldness. 

And wasn't that a good question? He smiled slightly, not completely dishonest. "Your wards would have been triggered, I'm sure, and I don't need you thinking you have a reason to hunt me down." he points out, and he feels some satisfaction that it is not a complete lie. 

In the dimness of the room, lit only by a distant fireplace and a few scattered candles, he could see Harry's cheeks pink before he ducked his head slightly with an embarrassed smirk. "You don't need to ask my permission to go outside."

His smile, originally meant to be charming, turned wry. "Don't I?"

Harry looked up at him again, sincere. "No, you don't. I told you that you aren't a prisoner here, and I meant it." 

But it wouldn't register. He felt the words slide immediately off of him, traveling from his earlobe to his shoulder, and down the middle of his back, and glide over the back of his legs. It wasn't denial, but it was . . . _unacceptance_. 

"So, if I wanted, you'd let me escape to . . . Barcelona?"

"What have you got in _Barcelona_?"

"It's the _principle_ , Potter. The fact that I know you haven't been providing these things for me without some sort of cost."

Because maybe he did feel a little indebted. True, he didn't ask for any of this, and he was here more or less against his will, but he was completely in Harry Potter's hands now, and there was no way to know how to feel about that.

Harry shifted in his seat. "The only thing I ask of you is to be civil. There's nothing I could possibly want from you." Tom could see his Harry's thought process come to s screeching halt for a moment and then start back up again with a sort of renewed vigor. "I don't even know you."

And he had a point. 

He had a  _logical_ point, and it went against the very core of his being to argue with logic.

(But then again, his situation wasn't exactly logical, so maybe he shouldn't give a damn either way.)

He nodded regardless. "Still, I don't very much like this."

To his surprise, Harry laughed. "The feeling is mutual, Riddle, I can promise you that."

Thunder slapped against the window and shook some of the interiors of the house, reminding Tom why he had come in here in the first place. "So, I can go?"

"If you'd like."

"And you won't track me using your wards?"

"I'm sure I can . . . lighten them for a while. I'd just like you to let me know when I can return them again."

He paused. 

"Why don't you come with me?"

Shock, definitely, crawled across Harry's face this time. "What?"

"Come outside with me. I'm sure it could do some good." 

Which was probably true. He knew how to reach Harry, but he's never known exactly where the other young man spent his time. It seemed as though the house was a grandiose maze of dust and footsteps. He _wanted_ to search it, he _wanted_ to explore and poke and prod _exactly_ where he knew he shouldn't. The issue was that every time he opened his door his skin crawled and his stomach turned over. 

"I don't think that would be _wise_ . . ."

Tom gave him a _look_.

* * *

Harry curled in on himself on the top stair leading up to 12 Grimmauld Place. His hands were tucked under his arms and every few minutes, his body vibrated in his too-big, obviously borrowed coat.

Tom sat, almost directly in front of him at the bottom of the stairs. His legs were crossed, and rain poured on him like something unholy. His shoes were flooded and his clothes were like wet towels draped all over his body. It was the exact reason he had never done this in front of anybody before, but he couldn't bring himself to care now that the majority of the people he knew from his time — if the ones that were remotely relevant were even still alive — probably wouldn't recognize him. 

Either way, none of that mattered now. 

(Nothing did . . . )

"Is something supposed to be happening?!" Harry shouted, and even though Tom was relatively close, he still had some trouble hearing him. 

"It's raining — something is already happening!" 

Silence. 

Something like silence, anyway. It was as soft as silence, and there was the taste of static in his mouth in the absence of sound. He didn't feel the need to say or hear anything, and it was the first time in about a month that he actually felt comfortable.

Tom knew Harry was probably getting a bit anxious. Knew that the other boy was probably waiting for something to be happening. He also knew that he should probably care that he wasn't being given the benefit of the doubt or something, but nothing was really sticking. Harry obviously hated him for something that he was going to do, or for someone he was going to be. Harry was emotional and would break soon enough. (Or, at least crack enough to let Tom have a look inside.)

For now, they would sit.

Tom closed his eyes and turned his face up towards the sky. 

* * *

He wasn't surprised to come back into the house to find it devoid of life. 

Even though he never saw anybody else, usually he could hear something that indicated someone else besides Harry existed here with him. The house was old; the floorboards creaked with even the slightest movement, voices sometimes bled through the thin walls, and when he'd move from room to room sometimes, things were usually moved or positioned differently when he came back. 

He figured there were no more than three other people besides Potter and himself living there, and he more or less preferred being kept away from them, even if the intentions behind it weren't so considerate.  

"So, where are they?" 

They were sitting in a room obviously meant for entertainment. There was piano just a few feet out of the entryway, a grand fireplace, chairs and couches littered uniformly throughout the room, a bookcase filled with classics (some he knew, some he did not), etc. etc. It was cleaner than what he would have expected, but it still smelled like stagnant water and cobwebs. 

Harry was crouched by the fireplace, trying his damnedest to start a fire with thick bricks of wood and a box of matches alone. "What?"

"The others," Tom elaborated, sitting on one of the stiff, black couches across from the fireplace, toweling his hair and trying to ignore a slight rage at the curls folding against his forehead. (Nobody could look _foreboding_ with curly hair. It was an  _impossibly_ stupid knick in his otherwise fortuitous genetics that he honestly couldn't stand.) "The others who live here? Only one of them lives on the floor above mine, and the whole time I've stayed here, the only other person whose actually been anywhere near my room is you. I figured we would have seen one of them by now."

Harry's back stiffened, but he continued (and failed) with another match. "Um, well, Luna is visiting a friend of hers, I believe. And Draco is . . . probably with Hermione."

"Draco . . . Like the constellation?"

Tom didn't know how, but Harry seemed to tense further, his crouch turning a bit animalistic and hunched. "Yes," he answered, his voice dry. 

Tom nodded to himself slowly. "Is he a Black, then?"

"Well, sort of, I suppose." Harry actually seemed to unwind a bit at that, and if Tom wasn't mistaken by the flex of Harry's jaw, he was smiling. "His mother was, anyway, and I suppose he just wanted to keep up the tradition."

Harry was definitely smiling. 

A smile of his own melted into the corners of his mouth, but he from before he let it metastasize. "Is he like any of them?"

"Hard to say. Posh as all hell, but he means well." There was something vaguely reminiscent in Harry's tone. 

Tom wasn't satisfied. "How long have you known him, then?"

"We went to school— We _are_ going to school together, but we've only been . . . acquainted for about a year now."

"He's living in your house, and you can't even manage to call him your friend?"

Harry stood, but the fireplace still remained dark. "Not my house," he said off-handedly, obviously focusing on the cold, dark pit. He was turned slightly, and Tom could see Harry's top lip disappear under his top row of teeth and—

Tom shifted and stood swiftly. He walked over to Harry, and taking the matchbox from his hand, he copied Harry's previous stance and knelt down. "The bookcase, over there," he gestured with the nod of his head. "Grab me something you won't read and bring it here."

It took him a moment, but Harry quickly went to the bookshelf and was back before Tom had even gotten a match out of the box. "What do you need this for?" he asked. 

Tom smiled slightly again, and this time, actually looked up at him. "I'm assuming you haven't forgotten how to make a fire like a proper wizard and were just looking for the experience of doing it manually?" The room was darker than Harry's study had been earlier, being lit only partially by spotted moonlight, but Tom could still see traces of the same blush as before spreading across Harry's cheeks and neck, disappearing underneath the dripping collar of his robes. "You've got most of the set up right, if not upside down—"

"I read it in a book."

Tom raised an eyebrow. "Right," He reached up and tugged on the little green tome in Harry's hands. He didn't bother looking at the title or the words on the pages as he flipped through to the middle, and began tearing. He handed the book back to Harry when his lap was full and started twisting and bundling the paper. After he placed it on top of the kindling, he grabbed a match and started the fire. 

He stood, keeping his eyes on the steadily growing fire and completely ignoring Potter's stare. 

The silence became heavy.

"You might as well tell me," Tom says, slowly beginning to accept the fact that Potter needs to be _walked_ into a conversation by the hand. 

"I'm sorry?"

"What it is that I did . . . What I'm going to do. Whatever it is that's got everybody on their toes." There's no pretense here. There's no hiding. He has no reason to keep his mask, and Tom's got this feeling that blunt sincerity will appeal to him. 

Harry seems to flounder for a few moments before moving and dropping himself into Tom's spot on the couch. Tom follows his movements — if a bit more gracefully — and sits next to Harry, keeping his gaze fixed anywhere but the other boy. Any situation he was put in in this time shoveled doubt onto him. Tom could dominate any atmosphere if he tried hard enough, but there was no substance to this place. No war, as far as he could see, but no prosperity, either. Everything here feels bleak and too neutral and he didn't know what to make of it. Every person that he met seemed to be in the middle of something and didn't seem to care on way or the other. 

Boy drops out of the sky fifty-five years out of time and nobody bats a fucking eyelash. 

(Nobody except Harry Potter.)

It's curious. 

Harry seems to have regrouped, but Tom can still see him grappling with himself. "Well, aside from the possibly-illegal time-traveling?"

"Well, without that, I wouldn't be here," he said, his tone chiding. "Fortunately for me, they didn't find any 'dubious devices' on my person, so you're going to have to try a bit harder."

"And I suppose, I've just got to ignore the whole 'reality collapsing' bit that happens if you don't like what you hear?" Tom could hear the smirk in Harry's voice. 

An opportunity. "Why would I not like what I hear?"

"People make mistakes." 

(It wasn't like he was expecting Harry to rise to his bait, but he was still a little disappointed.)

"You may not know this," he leaned in and lowered his voice. "but I, generally, don't. Try again."

"Maybe because I simply _don't want to_?"

Tom frowned and wondered at that. He wasn't expecting that, certainly, but every closed window does eventually become an open door. "And why would _that_ be?"

Harry sighed, and without looking at him, Tom knew that he was running his hand through his hair. "What's got you so curious all of the sudden?"

"Just because you ignore my questions, Harry Potter, does not mean that they don't exist anymore, or become any less relevant to me."

He finally turned to look at Potter, only to find Harry's eyes on him. They were locked on his neck and slowly traveling upwards, and the heat of them appeared to leave a trail that tip-toed _up_ and _down_ the side of his collarbone— 

He swallowed. 

Harry met his eyes and spoke. "I'm not ignoring them," he said confidently, obviously preparing for an immediate rebuttal. When none came, he continued. "You've got to understand what this is like. It's not as if anyone's written a handbook."

"My heart weeps for you, Potter. Why not leave me at the Ministry, then?"

Harry's face scrunched in disgust. "Because you would've been treated like a criminal, and you haven't even done anything."

 _Yet._  

It was a start, but nothing Tom could use right now. He filed it away for later, hoping he wouldn't have to be as abrasive as that. 

He shifted slightly, trying to give away no hesitation. "And that wouldn't have been fair?"

"No, it wouldn't have." Harry replied. "And it wouldn't have helped us get you back."

But the problem is, now, that Tom doesn't know if he really _wants_ to go back. Things aren't good here, surely, but it's much better than the war or the orphanage or Hogwarts, for that matter.

It's _better_ , is the point.

It's _newer_ , in a way. 

There doesn't have to be a pretense here because he's already existed once, if not still. 

But it's not like he can tell Harry that.

So he doesn't.

* * *

Hermione Granger didn't exactly look _unassuming_ , but Tom didn't think much of her.

She sat across from him. She looked frazzled and fragile, but also whipcord and strong. There's this air of hostility she seemed to carry, and though her gaze was pleasant enough, she seemed ready to strike.

It was almost explosive.

Tom felt like the trigger.

"No," she said finally, looking directly at him, even though no one had asked her anything yet. 

" _Hermione_ ," Harry quickly followed. "You don't even know—"

"I do, actually, and the answer is no. I know who he _is_ , I know what he's _done_ , and the answer is **_no_**." Her eyes flickered to Potter but were back on Tom in a second. "The fact that you'd even ask me is—"

Harry scoffed. "Hermione, I haven't actually asked you anything yet."

There was a tense lapse. 

"But will you? Help?"

She seemed to consider this with the same amount of scrutiny she considered Tom with. She sat like stone and remained expressionless, but he practically felt himself being dissected on the spot.

She was good. A mediocre Slytherin, maybe, or a wayward Ravenclaw. She wasn't pure enough to be a Gryffindor and her hesitance and lack of absolute faith in Harry gave away too much to let him know that there was no way that she could be a Hufflepuff. 

Then again, he's been wrong before. 

Finally, after a minute or two, she spoke, "I'll need . . . _time_." 

 _Well,_ Tom just barely restrained himself from saying,  _they all needed some time. That was the core of the problem here, wasn't it?_

Harry's face shone for a moment before he reeled in his obvious excitement. "Thank you, Hermione. You know how much it means to me that you would—"

"That she would what?"

Tom doesn't know how they didn't here the new boy come in, but they're all taken aback by his sudden presence at the front door. He's tall and lean and so very, very blond that it's not hard to guess who he might be. "Malfoy?" he says, knowing it's probably a bad idea to draw this sort of attention to himself right now, but _come on_.

This's got to be Abraxas' grandson, at least, and there's no way he should be expected to pass up this opportunity. 

The boy looks at him, obviously confused, but having too many manners to show it properly. "I'm sorry, have we met?"

Tom smirks. "It's been a lifetime or so, but you could say that, yes." 

In a moment, a familiar pain blossoms in his side, and it takes everything in him not to double-over. He looks up, and sees Granger, staring at him again, but with no form of tangible expression on her face. She looks, almost, like she might be studying, but she doesn't look to be angry. 

He looks to Harry and—

 _There it is_. 

He opens his mouth, but Malfoy beats him to it. "I'm sorry, but does somebody want to tell me what the hell is going on?"

"Draco," Granger finally says, but it's much more delicate than Tom thought she'd be capable of.

_Interesting._

He obeys and warily moves to sit next to her, and directly across from Tom. He notices the line of the other boy's body, and how that side of him — the one next to Granger — settles much easier than the other. They aren't touching and they haven't actually looked at each other, but in a moment, their breathing is in sync and are sitting almost identically. 

 _Don't,_ Tom hears, and a few things happen all at once: 1) Granger starts talking in a low voice, explaining the situation (or lying about it, Tom can't tell because); 2) Tom just heard someone speak, even though no one actually spoke and that someone is 3) Harry Potter. 

**_Interesting._ **

So he doesn't press. He lets Granger lie to Malfoy ( _found with an old, old purist family outside of Glasgow . . . I'm sure you wouldn't know them . . . Because they weren't active at the time . . . He needs our help . . . That's his story to tell 'why', don't be rude . . ._ ) and sits quietly, trying to not let his surprise (or is that fear) show on his features. His back is ramrod straight, and he's doing everything in the world to ignore Potter's eyes burning into the side of his face. 

"So your name is?" 

"Tom," he says, dumbly. He feels . . . fuzzy. Like right before falling asleep where he's hyper-aware of everything but feels like he's deep underwater at the same time. 

Draco smirks, and he's sure the other two have drawn comparisons between the two of them. "I got that part," he says, and Tom vaguely acknowledges the fact that Granger must have been explaining for some time, as seven minutes have lapsed and he didn't even notice. "I'm assuming you have a last name?" 

And he freezes, because  _shit_ , he's probably supposed to say something here. He knows, instinctively, that he can't give his name, because obviously he's known here, and it's apparently not for a good reason.

Tom knows he's supposed to  _not_  pause because he's _supposed_ to know his _own_ _goddamn_ _name_. 

Well, he knows _a_ name. "Gaunt. Thomas Gaunt." he throws in, for good measure. 

(He mostly _certainly_ will not be found now.)

There's the familiar jolt in his side again, but this one feels more like a tugging sensation.  _Really? That's the best you could do?_

And at this point, he's done being surprised and is just becoming increasingly infuriated with Potter in his head. He concentrates very hard and:  _You're one to talk._

He feels rather than sees Potter straighten beside him and smirks. _Something_ happened, at least, and at this point, he'll take a whatever sort of upper-hand he can get.

He almost forgets where he is and who he's talking to.

"Gaunt?" Malfoy says, almost like he's trying to remember. Obviously, he comes up short. "I've definitely never heard."

Granger pulls a face that might look like smugness on anyone else, but covers it almost immediately with a grim nod. "We figured as much. Either way, he'll be seeking a sort of political asylum at Hogwarts this year, but after we find the rest of them, he'll go back to live with some relatives he has in Livingston." 

Malfoy considers this with a sage sort of frown, but with an obvious, proportionally appropriate amount of skepticism. "That sounds . . . very generous. Is this a . . . special interest?"

He doesn't understand the number of questions on this. Being as conservative and objective as he can in regards to Granger, it's a pretty simple and straightforward premise. There are gaps for him, of course, (why would he need to seek any sort of asylum anywhere; why would she make his background in Scotland and not, literally anywhere else; why is his name still Tom; _why why why_ ) but overall, it's an easy narrative to follow. 

He doesn't communicate any of his questions in any way, though, and tries to let it drain from him when Granger shakes her head. "He came to us. We're just trying to be _helpful_."

A deaf man couldn't have missed her disdain, even as her features remained passive. 

Malfoy just smiled, though, like he had missed the entire interaction. His eyes were still tight. "Well, I think that's . . . wonderful." He moved to stand and looked just over Tom's shoulder. "Potter? A word?"

He didn't watch Harry and Malfoy as they left, and instead, focused on a bookcase that seemed to be bulging out of every orifice. They disappeared around a corner, but when their footsteps disappeared with them on the hardwood floors, Tom met Granger's eyes once more. "Extension charm?"

She smirked. "Something like that," she said, giving nothing away in her tone. "Keeps one guessing."

"Doesn't seem very sporting."

The smirked looked plastered on now. "They know their way around, and I believe that's all that are necessary."

He smiled this time, with something genuine. In a past life, he thought, he might've liked her. There was something about her character that matched something in his, and if he would have been open to the idea, at some point, they could have even been lovers. 

Funny, how it goes. 

"I assume you won't tell me if I ask you?" He knows he doesn't have to specify. 

(It's not like he'd know how to if he wanted.)

"I mean," she begins like it's a fickle thing. "there is the whole, 'preserving the continuity of time itself', but I'm pretty sure you're about tired of that bit."

He nods. "You don't like me very much, do you?" But doesn't put his back in it. It's supposed to be innocent and rhetorical, but he senses guilt isn't the emotion he needs to be looking for. 

She shrugs. "I don't suppose that would be fair." But it was supposed to be a question. 

He's unfazed. "And so it goes." he deadpans, and it's a tragic little sound that _pulls_ from her and cracks the space between them like a bull-whip.

But he thinks that it might have been a laugh once. 

"This is . . .  _Christ,_ this is so . . ." 

He agrees with her wholeheartedly. This is his life, and now, the course of it is in the hands of a woman who can't even laugh correctly. She's got her wits, maybe, but if that isn't enough . . .

No.

He's going to solve this himself like he planned at the beginning.

He just . . .

Fuck.

When Harry and Malfoy come back from wherever, and Harry manhandles him off the couch, Granger is still cackling like something caged and he doesn't know how much time has passed.

* * *

"You're Thomas Gaunt, your parents—"

"That really is a terrible name, you know? _Thomas_. They used call me that at the orphanage sometimes when they needed more syllables in their limericks. They thought it was ridiculous that anyone could be named _just_ Tom, but it's not _really_ my name."

"What? _Yes_. I know that. But it's your name  _here_ and I need you to remember that. Hermione and I— and maybe Malfoy, too, now . . . this has gotten so _messy_ . . . _Anyway_ , we might call you Tom, and that should be fine, but anybody else who addresses you will probably call you Thomas until you correct them."

" _If_ — and why would I want to do that? I thought I wasn't supposed to make _friends_?"

"Well . . . I mean . . . Yeah, right. No. You're _really_ not. But others might . . . I don't know—"

" _There once was a young boy named Thomas_ —"

"This is _so_ beside the—"

" _And when the bombs came down upon us_ —"

" ** _Seriously_** —"

"Seriously. There was a creativity spike a few years before I left for Hogwarts, but it stopped shortly after. Learning curve."

"Children don't tell jokes about killing people with bombs!"

"Have you ever _met_ a child?"

* * *

It's a week or so before they're due back.  

His books sit in the corner of his room, he's got a small closet full of wizarding robes and muggle clothes, and he's got shoes that have been made within the last two decades which feels . . .

"Turn your head a little to the left, please."

He obeys. It's an odd sensation — having his hair cut. It's been so long since he'd had to _entrust_ someone else with scissors so close to his neck, but he really was beginning to look quite ridiculous, and these . . .  _people_ couldn't trust that he knew how to hold scissors . . .

So, here he was: damp hair combed every which way, on the sheet, and on the floor. His head felt much lighter, so he supposed that the whole affair wasn't wholly ridiculous. He turned his head for Granger once more and stayed his posture. 

Her hands were nimble and fast enough for what she was tasked with, she was relatively silent, and he was, privately, thankful that she was gentle enough with him. The room was quiet, and if he closed his eyes and held his breath, he could nearly hear her thinking. 

"I'm almost done. It appears to be mostly okay."

He smirked. "How . . . _reassuring_ ," he commented, more or less grateful for the break in silence. He was used to idle chatter around him, and though he detested taking part in it himself, he would when necessary. "I don't believe you've chopped off any of my appendages, which must mean something _good_ , at least."

He heard her breathe out something akin to a laugh and heard another _snip_ of the scissors before her hands were combing through his hair again. "There. I think that's all well and good, then." He wasn't quick to look. It didn't really matter to him either way: looks were but a mere convention, and there was no one here he was concerned with disarming them with. He just pulled off the sheet and sat there for a few moments, clearly in no rush to do anything or go anywhere. The unnatural quiet of Grimmauld could not be stressed — dust could be heard if it settled too loudly. It reminded Tom of the nights when he would wander down by the Lake after curfew and just sit, staring at the serene edges. If he closed his eyes now—

"Harry should be back soon, I think." Everything was cleaned, and the sheet had been spelled away. "I know he said he'd be a while, but he hates these things, so I'm sure he'll find an excuse to leave early."

Tom just nodded. He wanted to say something scathing about the fact that she could just leave if she didn't want to be here. Contrary to popular belief, he did not, in fact, need a _babysitter_. He told her as much. 

She sighed. "Tom," she walked around to stand before him. "I am _not_ . . . _You're_ not . . . It's _complicated_."

"I believe we've had this conversation already." He stood, forcing her back a few paces. "I don't much care for your justification, just as you do not care for my contentions."  _I'm not stupid enough to believe that they'd do me much good even if you did._

He could see the argument contort her face, twisting it this way and that with sympathy, dejection, and indignation. He knew she had much more to say, but this was not an argument he wanted to have. 

He left. 

Though he'd been asked not to leave the house, he could travel anywhere he wanted to _within_ Grimmauld Place without arousing too much suspicion. He didn't _want_ to go anywhere, was the problem. He had slipped into the habit of retiring to his room for most of his days, only coming out for meals, or, on the rare occasion, that the solitary became too much and he needed a change of scenery.  

Time doesn't seem to exist here. He is able to acknowledge the passage of it (there are windows magically scattered throughout the house) but it doesn't seem to do anything for him. It feels as though he is living in a vacuum. Things happen to him, and he knows that, but it does not feel as though memories are being created. He wakes up, day to day, and is not sure if he's truly retained anything — if what he knows now that he didn't know before are retained, only because he's basically living the same _godforsaken_ day over and over again. 

After the one night of rain, there's been nothing but sunshine. It's something of an impossibility, he thinks, which further supports his thesis that Time no longer exists. Everyone's just been thrown into a stasis in a fishbowl and they're all just waiting for—

"Thomas."

It occurs to him that he's still standing in the doorway of the kitchen.

He didn't even register the crack of Apparition or the presence of another living, breathing human being anywhere in his periphery. 

This is a problem. 

Harry is standing in front of him, his _idiotic_  green eyes are muddled with a new sort of concern, as he regards Tom warily. "Are you alright?"

He nods, though the words don't come to him immediately. "Yes, I'm fine."

Harry looks unconvinced. "Good," he says slowly, the worry obvious in his tone without being condescending. "Hermione left, but she said things went well. You look nice."

This stops them both.

"Excuse me?"

"It's— I mean . . . Your hair. She, uh, did a nice job a-and your hair . . ." he gestures emphatically. "It looks . . . _nice_."

(He wasn't—)

Tom nods slowly and shifts on his feet. With Harry standing in the middle of the hall, he had the choice to either go around him or move back to the kitchen. Neither seemed worthwhile, but it was becoming increasingly clear that he couldn't just  _stand here_ for the rest of the day. 

"Well, thank you. I was sure to pass on my thanks."

"R-Right."

(Was he—?)

And here it was again: the mundane, almost-passing of time. 

Harry's face set itself strangely, something like determination curling around his lips and his eyes. He was subtly avoiding Tom's gaze.

Interesting.

"I think I'll be off again soon. Is there anything that you need?" 

"No, thank you. I'll be in my room."

And he moved to leave without giving Harry so much as a once-over or look back. 

(Was Harry Potter _flustered_?)

* * *

 Hogwarts was much the same as it ever had been.

He hadn't seen much when he had first "arrived" here, as dragging himself in and out of consciousness required quite a bit of his attention at the time. The grass was as soft as he remembered, the cobblestones as cold; the infirmary, as few times as he had actually been there, was as white and unassuming as he could conjure up memories to compare it to.

The headmaster's office (or, he supposed, headmistress' now) was near the same as what he could remember from his few visits there. Things were rearranged and added and subtracted as needed, he assumed, but everything was fundamentally the same down to the upholstery.

He'd never seen the room he had been kept in before, but he could tell that it had been there for a while and was almost completely untouched that whole time. It was nothing like his room at Grimmauld Place — there was no dust or cobwebs or hidden aura. The room was simply an unused one, with chipping paint and settling floorboards. It was a room meant for hidden things. It had that sort of emptiness, one that he knew well. 

At Wool's, that's how all the rooms were built. 

However, Hogwarts was as alien to him now as it was familiar. 

The Great Hall smelled slightly metallic and more like sugary baked goods than the heartiness of the home cooked meals almost overflowing the tables. It held a more weighted atmosphere, with some sort of pointed hostility toward the anorexic skeleton that was the Slytherin table. What little there was there, sat with hunched shoulders and proverbial teeth bared. Bothering to keep his eyes on them felt like he was toeing a feral territory, and being within two table lengths of them was boarding on suffocating. 

"Am I missing something?" 

Harry chuckles beside him. "A few things, to be sure," he responds, keeping his eyes forward as they walk down the aisle between what appears to be the Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw tables. Before Tom can ask for anything specific, Harry is surrounded by nothing but hair and limbs. 

"Harry! It's so good to see you!" an airy exclamation came from under the hair. It was a woman — a very _blonde_ woman — that he could tell from the voice and the hair. The hair itself sprouted from the head — as it might've from any other reasonable being who did not wish to trip over it — and just brushed the tops of her ankles. The voice seemed to have no substance to it. There was no spine in the way it seemed to float from her mouth and loop into Harry's ears, and Tom was sure it was a quality that some might have enjoyed. 

Tom found it infuriating. 

Harry hesitated a moment, before returning the embrace fully and spinning her around. "You _do_ realize that I _just_ saw you yesterday?"

(Something that Tom immediately realized was perfectly possible, considering he didn't see Harry at all yesterday.)

"Yes, Harry, I do. "Are you back for the whole year?

Harry just continued to smile. "Are you back for the whole year?"

She nodded. "I believe so. My father is doing quite well, so I trust he'll be able to care for himself until the Holidays."

They carried on in the same mundane, back-and-forth for some moments more until the Hall began to settle, waiting for the first-years to arrive. Much quieter, in his day, and much more synchronized. He remembers the bustling about and sheer noise he experienced his first night here and wonders about the somber nature of these children again. Mentally, he collects more questions to get answered in his time here, and in the midst of that, he doesn't notice Ms. Lovegood (he presumes) leave to go sit and Harry speaking to him. 

"Thomas? We ought to get going."

Harry leads Tom to the Gryffindor table. Tom doesn't say anything, but Harry must sense his dislike, as he reassures him as soon as they sit down, "You can sit with the Slytherins tomorrow if you'd like, but for now, I think you'd be much better suited with a Gryffindor welcome."

Tom assumes he's being had on. "You don't trust me to be left with my own kind?"

Harry must've assumed the same. "Do I have a reason to?"

"Do you have a reason not to?"

The Hall erupted with applause. 

Tom ignored the line of first-years filtering in, deciding instead to keep his eyes trained on Harry, who looked overjoyed at the procession. The sound was vaccummed out of the building, it seemed, as Tom's brain apparently refused to process any sound. 

It was quiet. 

Somebody was beginning to spout a speech somewhere, but all Tom could hear was rain.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so usually I wouldn't go so meta with this, but I really just want to explain it to someone to see if I'm lost in the madness of characterization:
> 
> Okay, now look, Tom was screwed up before he was ever even born, okay. I get that. I understand and I accept and I actually love it when it comes to writing with him because if there's any random sort of paranoia and/or crazy thing, I literally just have to say, "Go to his Wiki page." as a justification. (I don't want to, but I can, is the thing.) 
> 
> But, I don't think he was full-on, completely lost and gone until /after/ he killed Myrtle, which, (if you've been keeping up and my writing has been coherent enough) he hasn't yet in his own timeline. His soul has not been split yet, and as evil and psychopathic as he was before, that doesn't account losing a part of his soul. 
> 
> He's still a person now. He's shattered and reeling, and no matter how devious and Slytherin he is, he's still a teenager. I'm not saying all that humanity gets sucked out with that part of his soul, but something must have. I don't think he's dumb or naive or unambitious or that all his "Dark Lord" business came all of the sudden when he created his first Horcrux, but I feel that that's where it was cemented. Good?


	8. I Think It's Going to Rain Today

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The darkest evening of the year

Everything seems to go just fine until Christmas.

Hogwarts is something the same as it was when he left. Everybody seems to ignore the War in some way or another, which is just fine with Harry. He still gets stopped in the halls, asked for his signature, told he's a hero, told he should smile more, told that he's loved and _thank you_ and  _I know you probably don't remember but you pulled my sister out from some rubble in June and I just wanted to say thank you because without you, she would've died all alone and I loved my sister and_ —

He avoids making the argument that all of those people might still be alive if he wouldn't have bothered being born and moves on with his day. 

The War is just a badly-kept secret at Hogwarts. He hears the whispers at breakfast and he sees the grief on the faces of first-years who lost loved ones in the same halls they now have to walk in to get to class. It's something he can manage.

It's an easy feat, compared to others.

(Hogwarts is vast and sometimes infinite — he should've known they wouldn't be able to fix all of the damage. However, the first time he visits Gryffindor tower and finds rubble caked with blood on one of the armchairs, he doesn't speak to anyone for three days.)

It's the stagnancy of being alive, he thinks. He's not moving forward or back. Nightmares come and go, but they no longer shake him for days on end like they used to. He's as emotionally available as he was during the war (which would be not at all) but he doesn't push others away in a sort of unrecognizable, self-sacrificing fear. He cleans things that are dirty, he does his assignments on time, he combs his hair, he sleeps in a functional pattern, he _eats_ —

He's _fine_. 

Ron only talks to him and Hermione now. Harry believed he was fine, too, but on the second night at Hogwarts, when it's Harry and Hermione on patrols, they find him collapsed in the Great Hall, screaming the same way George did at the Burrow when he had night terrors about Fred. 

It's interesting. 

They take him to Pomfrey, he's restrained, medicated, and when he wakes up he's almost as good as new, just . . . _less._  

So . . . _Yeah_. Harry thinks he's fine, too.

Hermione doesn't take her meals in the Hall, doesn't visit the library, and refuses any tea without lemon in it. Two of those facts are important, but Harry's noticed all three and has tried very hard to be okay with them. He tries not to let himself believe that it's caused by all the time she spends with Draco Malfoy (or: all the time that she _doesn't_ spend with _Harry_ ) but sometimes, he can't help but let his mind wander.

When he does, inevitably, think of them, it's hard to find flaws with the arrangement. War has softened Draco's edges and calmed whatever riot Hermione believed she'd been marching in her entire life. Together, the two of them were coexisting solar systems on the path to merge. Harry didn't say anything to clue them in on that fact, but he thought they'd figure it out eventually.

Ginny was the only one that Harry couldn't say anything about either way. He didn't feel like he had any right to acknowledge her pain, and even if he did, he didn't yet know how.

She was completely ornamental now. There was no shadow of her former self left anymore, as far as anyone could see. It seemed as if the entirety of Gryffindor had been trying to keep her together since coming back, to no avail. She hadn't changed much since the summer, keeping odd hours and staying mostly silent, vacant . . .

He heard that Molly had plans to send her to Shell Cottage as well.

So, _yeah_. 

Everything is great.

Including Tom.  

(It's something Harry believes to be true, but he also knows better than to believe things to be true anymore, considering where it had gotten him so far.)

* * *

 

**_Early December_ **

 

"Remind me, again: what is the point of all this?" 

They've had this conversation before. 

"I told you, something happened, and now we all have to repeat a year."

"Then why bother calling it 'Eighth Year'?"

"Because not everybody is repeating the year."

" _Why_?"

" _Something happened_."

And, they'd probably have the same conversation in a few days. 

For the three months they'd been at Hogwarts, Tom's curiosity had abated. He went to his designated lessons (all of which he shared with Harry _just in case_ ), he made relatively polite conversation, he never missed his nightly appointments with McGonnagall, and he had taken to knitting. 

Thomas Gaunt (previously known as Tom Riddle) who later became Lord Voldemort, one of the most feared megalomaniacs in all of wizarding history, casually took to _knitting scarves_ in his pastime. 

And he was _good_. 

"Is _that_ why Minny tries to get into my head every night?" Tom asked, with all the innocence that one should have when knitting an obnoxiously green _something_ with _neon blue_ knitting needles (courtesy of Luna Lovegood.) He wasn't looking at Harry, which Harry found both beneficial and irritating. 

Harry shrugged. "You'd have to ask her about that."

"I did," Tom said, as if it Harry should've known. 

Harry was not moved by this, as every ambiguous piece of dialogue that Tom gave him made his three feet of writing seem more and more like a mountain. 

He made sure to translate that with his eyebrows. "And her answer was . . . ?"

"Unsatisfying, to say the least." Tom sighed. "I don't know what more I need to do to show you all that I can be trusted."

Harry shook his head. "This has nothing to do with you, Thomas, it's—"

"I don't know what I've said or done to make everybody believe that I care about the continuity of the goddamned timeline, but whatever it is, I didn't mean it." He threw his needles and yarn onto the coffee table in front of him.

Harry swiveled around to face him, his work at the desk abandoned. "You want me to believe that you don't care about continuing your existence?" _You would've saved everyone quite a bit of time if you didn't._

Tom shrugged. "I'm not doing much with it currently, _thanks to you and Miss Granger_. I've been _here_ for almost eight months, and I'm no closer to getting back to my own time than I was the day I _arrived_!"

Tom, unfortunately, had a point. 

Without any sort of Time Turner or spell available to explain Tom's sudden appearance, there wasn't much they could do for him. They didn't know if sending him back, possibly prematurely, would do more harm than good. Aside from keeping him relatively hidden at Hogwarts, all hands tasked with solving the mystery were tied behind proverbial backs. The Ministry was a-buzz with mass-reform, and so was Hogwarts; Hermione was busy with . . . _something_ , though she was, admittedly, the most helpful of the bunch with her periodical updates of a seemingly unsolvable equation; and the most effort McGonagall put forth was making sure that Tom didn't pick up anything "interesting" (read: completely and utterly _devastating_ ) in his day to day life.

At least he was easy to live with, Harry supposed. 

He, oddly, was more sympathetic than he probably should have been. It stopped being a matter of 'I understand what it's like to be utterly clueless about your life and everyone else knows what's going on' and more of 'I understand what it's like to be suddenly and completely alone' ages ago. Harry had been warring with himself (alone) for months now, about how to properly introduce Tom to this world.

They were safe at Hogwarts, and Hogwarts alone. Keeping Tom away from the Daily Prophet every morning was easier than Harry once assumed, and Tom showed no interest in going on trips to Hogsmeade and Diagon Alley. But those were all temporary reliefs . . . what would happen after they left? Harry didn't know what Shacklebolt's plans were for when Harry graduated. Here they could be monitored; Grimmauld was an old, large house mostly uncharted by even Harry himself. It was a liability, and everyone (including Tom) knew it.

It all made three feet of writing on magical cores seem like a hill.

In a wild moment of bravery, Harry sat straight in his seat and drew in a breath. "Tom, what if I gave you _one_ question?"  

Tom seemed to deliberate this for a moment, screwing up his face, and morphing it every time his thought process took a turn. "Elaborate."

Harry swallowed, suddenly much more nervous. "You can ask me _one_ question, and I'll answer it."

"What are the rules?"

There were subtle hints over his lifetime as to why Harry was not in Slytherin, and this was one of them. Rules for one, answer-guaranteed question made sense, and yet they never occurred to him in the seconds between when the thought to offer it was created, and when it was verbalized. 

He'd have to reflect on that later. 

"I suppose," Harry began. "There are no rules. I'm sure I don't need to highlight the idiocy of repeating a question you've already asked, but that's just a suggestion."

"How do I know if you're telling me the truth?"

He shrugged. "We don't keep Veritaserum at Hogwarts anymore," he lied. "I suppose you'll just have to trust me."

Tom shifted uncomfortably in his seat. 

There was a pause.

"What would you ask, if you were me?"

Harry didn't have the _beginning_ of an answer, but he wasn't about to inform Tom of that. "That would be telling," he told him. Harry smirked. "You're a mediocre Slytherin: you figure it out."

The look Tom gave him was either murderous or impressed, but Harry was having a hard time keeping eyes on him long enough to figure out which.

He went back to his parchment. He plowed through the writing and, quickly, moved on to other assignments as Tom quietly stewed behind him. He was almost finished with his entire assignment list for the next week when Tom finally spoke up:

"You said I killed someone," he began, and Harry could hear some sort of rustling behind him. 

Harry raised an eyebrow, even though he knew Tom couldn't see him. "Did I?"

He honestly didn't remember. He hadn't completely repressed his first meetings with Tom, but they were something he really liked to reflect on all that much. He'd figured there wasn't much he could've truly given away, but maybe he was wrong. 

"You did," Tom continued. 

" . . . Was that your question?"

" _No_ ," Annoyance. "I suppose asking ' _why'_ is as pointless as asking ' _who'_ , isn't it?"

"Was  _that_ your question?" 

Silence.

Harry turned to find Tom not looking at him. Instead, he was glaring at the wall in front of him with his arms crossed. Had it been a more decompressed situation, Harry might've thought Tom looked . . . _cute_. However, considering it _was_ , he _didn't_. 

"How did she die?"

. . . _Alright_.

"She looked a Basilisk in the eyes," Harry said bluntly. He'd never really thought about Myrtle's death in-depth before. No matter what she was like in her life (and her death), he could only imagine how scared she might have been just before.

Myrtle had become much more somber in her recent tenure at Hogwarts. She had petitioned the Ministry to allow her to leave the grounds, saying it was unlawful to force her to remain in a place where such dreadful things had happened. Harry understood what it was like to have your own death not be the worst one to experience in a lifetime, and often talked to her about that. 

Tom took a moment to process. "How does a girl at Hogwarts encounter a Basilisk?"

Disappointment flooded through Harry. "That's another question,"

Tom clenched his jaw, but he did not argue. "But then, how could I have murdered her? If she died from looking a Basilisk in the eyes, I can't be blamed for that."

But Harry could see beneath the anger: a little bit of confusion, curiosity, and . . . _pride_. 

He wasn't expecting much else. "I'm sure you could put it together yourself."

_One._

_Two._

_Three._

"So, you know, then?"

Harry raised an eyebrow. "That you're a Parselmouth? Or that you've been trying to open the Chamber of Secrets?"

He had the grace to look bashful. "I'm guessing that the facts don't endear you to me?"

. . .

(He wasn't—)

. . .

Harry tilted his head to the side, the corners of his mouth raising themselves _without_ his consent. "Were they supposed to?"

Tom licked his lips and continued not looking at Harry. "When I first . . . _appeared_ . . . I heard whispers about you," he began, looking more uncomfortable than Harry had seen him before. "I heard whispers about the ' _Great Harry Potter_ '—"

"Tom—"

"They called you a _conquorer_ —"

"Tom," Harry attempted to reign himself in, gripping the sides of the chair and sliding forward. "Tom, I think that that's enough—"

A flash of movement interrupted him. 

In a second, Tom was in front of him, crouched and on his knees. Tom's limbs made up most of his body, but the expansive layout of the Head chambers still had Harry questioning exactly how he had ended up in this situation. 

"They think you're a _god_ , Harry," Tom said, his voice upsettingly low. "Are you?"

And his first response, understandably, is in wondering _how in the great depths of his own personal Hell_ did he end up _here_. Tom's thighs are shaped in a V and on either side of him.

This situation is not _real_. 

 _Real people_ do not end up in the V of someone's thighs. 

Harry swallows once, and then again for the good measure of sounding exactly like he feels. "No," he says finally, voice less steady than he would've liked, but the best he could've asked for. "I am not a _god_ , Tom."

Tom leaned in closer, wiping any ideas of lingering 'personal bubbles' or 'breathing room' completely out of the pictures. Outside of his immediate thought process, he knew what this might look like to any sort of passersby, and he quickly wished that he was religious in some way to thank a god or something somewhere that there _were_ no passersby. 

"Then, _what_ exactly are you, Harry?" He found Harry's eyes and demanded their attention. 

(Was he—?)

"Nobody of consequence," he said, and shifted his hands to the arms of the chair. 

_Fucking unlucky, is what I am. Christ._

Tom leaned in again, but this time, placed his hands on top of Harry's thighs. It was a very casual motion, and, one that Harry hoped he wasn't going develop a habit in making. "I don't believe that," he said, but his voice wasn't as cruel as Harry was expecting. 

It was playful. 

( _Were_ they—?)

Tom Riddle had him as vulnerable as Harry thought he could be, and all he wanted to do was _banter_?

"So, what _did_ you do?"

Harry cleared his throat. His face was quite warm and his knees were on the verge of knocking together. Strangely, he did not feel claustrophobic trapped like this. It was an odd feeling of security that wrapped around him whenever he tried to think of a way to maneuver out of it. He could just stand up, he realized. But Tom . . . Tom was in a much more _compromising position_ for him to just _do that_. 

"I did something that a lot of people tell me was very good."

He was speaking very slowly, now, as if his mouth was full of invisible water.

His mouth felt _slow_.

"I did several things, actually. And a lot of people died. And a lot of people didn't die. And now I'm here."

And now he's here, saying things he doesn't want to say, in a position he really doesn't want to be in, and his mind too clouded with _something_ to understand _why_. 

"You _are_ here, Harry," Tom confirms, and his voice is more condescending than Harry would prefer.

(He elects to ignore it to figure out how and when Tom began to Manipulate him.)

But Tom isn't finished. "Do you _want_ to be here, Harry?"

(And he recognizes the pull of Tom's magic, trying to coax the honest answer out of him. He can see why this works on people, but it's nothing next to being Imperiused, and he was able to handle that alright.)

"I don't know." Because he doesn't. 

"Do you _want_ to be a god, Harry?"

"I never did." Because he didn't.

Tom seems to physically absorb this, and any subtext he thinks he can derive. His eyes trickle down, and Harry can physically feel Tom's magic stop it's lulling against him. Tom's eyes find his mouth and stay there a moment, before clawing their way down his neck, his shoulders, and his chest, and quickly finding their way to his own hands (still) on Harry's thighs. 

"Do you want me to take my hands off of you, Harry?" 

_one_

_two_

_three_

"Yes," Because the real answer is quickly becoming  _no,_ but contrary to popular belief, Harry knows a bad idea when he thinks of one. 

Tom seems to sense this and smiles shyly again. "Harry, how am I supposed to take you at your word after you lie to me?"

His head feels like a thousand pounds, but it's finally clearer and he can think beyond the monosyllabic. "The same way I'm supposed to trust you after you Manipulate me, I suppose."

That has Tom stopping short, his face carving itself permanently into the surrounding air exactly the way it's presented. "You know about that as well, then?"

"If I hadn't, you'd have just told me." Harry deadpanned.

"But you did?"

"Yes," Harry admitted, his body uncurling itself more and more each moment they spent like this. "I told you I would answer one question, and I did. You're being very rude." 

Tom rolled his eyes, his hands sliding off of Harry and onto the arms of the chair, still keeping him effectively trapped. "I've procured eleven answers; I'm being efficient."

He was probably right about that. 

"You can be both. You often _are_ both, you know."

"So I've been told," Tom said with a smile. 

(Were they _flirting_?) 

* * *

_Dear Harry,_

_I hope all is well._

_Teddy is positively beaming these days. I really do think that a dog was a bit too much, but it keeps him entertained and it's well trained. I'm sure we have Ms. Granger to thank for **that**  but thank you all the same. It entertains him only for so long, though._

_Don't think too much on it, however. I'm sure you are positively consumed with school and the Reconstruction efforts, but he truly misses you terribly. I am able to keep him off of it most days, but some are harder than others. This, just to remind you to visit once you get a moment._

_Teddy and I send our love._

_A. T._

The letter was signed with a flourish, and then it dissolved, leaving behind a moving picture of Teddy pulling himself up to stand next to a divan. 

* * *

Harry tried being discreet in pocketing the letter. He wanted to savor it a few minutes more, but he knew that it'd be much better to do so in much-needed privacy. 

Andromeda had a point. He had yet to make her aware of his situation, thinking it unwise to remind her of . . . _everything_. His sudden, abrupt gaps in his visits with Teddy probably _did_ seem strange, but he figured it was necessary: the last thing he was going to do is leave Teddy and Andromeda vulnerable to anything Tom was already planning.

 _Anything he had already planned_. 

Harry could _endure_.  

Harry could suffer again, probably, but he wasn't going to pass it around. 

He had a feeling this was a bad idea. 

"I think this is a bad idea," Hermione interrupted his train of thought, dropping a few more books in his lap. "You're hiding from him in the library. The _library_ , Harry. Want to try the Chamber next?"

"We could," Harry offered, shifting the pile in his lap. "He hasn't figured out how to open it yet, so we might have a better chance in there."

Hermione, somehow, frowned at him without actually looking at him. Her fingertips flew over spine after spine and _they_ even projected dissatisfaction. "I thought I was supposed to be helping him?"

"You are," Harry agreed. "That doesn't mean _he_ has to be _here_."

"It would be helpful."

"It would be _unnecessary_."

" _You're_ unnecessary."

"I carry your books!"

To prove her point, Hermione flicked him a glance. In a moment, all eleven books were shuffling themselves (he assumed, alphabetically) above his head. 

"I can carry my own books," she added. "So, what are _you_ here for?"

Harry sighed. "You do realize that, sometimes, I wish you were just a harmless, little Slytherin who minded her own business?"

Hermione's full attention was back on the books. "You'd be lost without me," she said, no inflection in her voice. "And you're being dodgy."

"I'm not being _dodgy_ ," Harry said defensively. "I don't want to be involved any more than I have to."

"You didn't have an issue with that before today." 

Harry raised an eyebrow and doesn't mention breaking Riddle's nose within the first hour of meeting him. He also neglects to mention how she's barely been around enough to notice whether or not he'd been having an issue with it before today, and instead, takes the books to a vacant table. He doesn't bother opening them, knowing that whatever she's picked would be wasted on him.

Harry knows he's smart. He's aware that he has his strengths, and some of them could even allow him to be labeled as intelligent. However, he doesn't rely on anything learned within books. 

Books lie, he believes, and rooted in that belief, he's made some of the most important (read: worst) decisions of his life.

"I think we need to start with the basics," Hermione's got quills and ink buzzing around her head. They quickly arrange themselves on the table while the books and small pieces of parchment slide between. There appears to be enough work here for a small army, but he wouldn't be surprised if Hermione had it done by nightfall.  "I sent for some books back home, and they should be here before Christmas."

"How long ago did you send for them?"

(This is a stupid question.)

"About October, once I remembered that I had them."

"Why has it taken so long?"

(Harry really shouldn't be allowed to speak sometimes.) 

It's not quite a violent shift in demeanor for them as it used to be. 

Hermione once claimed that it wasn't painful to remember her parents. She'd told Harry that it was only when she was forced to remember that they weren't alive anymore that really got her going. Harry didn't quite know what the difference was, but then again, he didn't know if he had any real memories of his parents that weren't of them being dead, so he couldn't relate. 

But this was crossing the line, he knew, in the worst way. 

Her back straightened a fraction and her lips pulled themselves into a tighter line.

She does not look at him. "Everything is kind of scattered between Australia and London, so I've had to get in touch with some of their old friends." Hermione pauses. "Mr. and Mrs. Wilkins were as social as Mr. and Mrs. Granger."

Harry nods and reaches for her hand under the table. "It must be genetic."

He can't find it and retracts. 

"Must be," she says, unaffected. "Now, I have a few theories . . ."

* * *

Harry, somehow, manages to catch almost everything she throws at him.

 _Almost_.

"But why would Voldemort use any energy at all to send Tom here, when it would have done just as much good to go there, tell him, and then come back?"

Hermione's been on her feet for about an hour at this point. She paces when she has to really think for answers, but it seems that she's thought of this and stops in front of him. "Riddle was cocky back in his day. Ambitions nurtured by Slughorn and Slytherin and Walpurgis . . . who knows if he even would have _believed_ he was capable of failing at that point."

He wants to argue. Wants to tell her that, from what he's seen, Riddle is perfectly capable of self-reflection and self-doubt but . . . Harry doesn't even know if those moments he's seen are genuine. 

"Maybe," he allows. "But there are pensive memories and visions; there are a hundred other things that Voldemort could've done to changed what happened, starting with sending him back earlier."

"He didn't know when he was going to die. Maybe he thought he'd had the War won by then."

Harry shook his head. "He wouldn't send himself too far ahead in time — he wasn't insane enough for that."

"Maybe something went wrong."

Harry gave her a Look. "You think Voldemort would get that far just to let something go _wrong_?"

Hermione seemed to think on that for a few moments as Harry gathered his own thoughts. "No, not really," she relented. "But it _makes sense_."

Harry shook his head. "No, it doesn't. _Maybe_ Voldemort sends Tom back here to learn from his mistakes and Tom's been lying to us. _Maybe_ he somehow managed to sneak past McGonagall's checks and _maybe_ he was able to sneak a Time Turner during whatever search and seizure he went through when I took him to the Ministry. It's been months, and it doesn't appear as if he's tried anything," _Lie_. "He could have stolen a newspaper or stopped someone on the street months ago, but he's still here."

"Maybe he hasn't found what he's looking for."

Pause. 

And Harry's brain starts working. 

Something about her plan feels wrong, but every time she speaks he feels something humming in his head. There are moths up there slowing everything down and if they would just run away or _die_ , things might start working just a bit faster. 

Harry kind of wants to run away or _die_ , but he doesn't get to. 

He's been relegated to the status of non-existent moths in his head.

 _Tom_ , he thinks, is just a guy he knows. This has been a slow-going, yet violent transition from the other variations of him Harry has had to get used to for survival reasons. They attend classes together, they read within the same breathing space of each other at night, and they sleep in adjacent rooms. _Tom_ is a person to Harry now, and he never intended for that to happen. 

Tom Riddle was supposed to be somebody he studied and took responsibility for. 

Thomas Gaunt was a boy he helped create and save from a war that wasn't even a part of his reality. 

But Tom . . .

Tom comes with no door marked exit.

Tom _touches_ him. 

Tom _flirts_ with him. 

And more importantly, Tom _knows_ him.  

(He doesn't, really, and Harry knows that, but bear with him for a second.)

He's not Tom's hero, and neither of them knows each enough to be the other's enemy (technically.) Tom knows as much as about Harry and his world as Harry's told him (read: nothing.) He's reliant on Harry, but not completely handicapped by his ignorance. He's completely his own entity, but his existence seems so fragile to Harry, like he disappears when Harry's not there to perceive him. 

With Tom, there's a real possibility that another wizard can know him as just _Harry_.

Not: Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived. 

Not: Harry Potter, the Enemy.

Not: Harry Potter, the Savior.

Not: Harry Potter, the Boy Who Couldn't Manage to _Die_.

Just Harry. 

* * *

They don't reach anything on the horizon of definitive, but they have several fragments of unrelated ideas that could come to be something eventually. 

They have an equation. 

"I don't know if it'll come to mean anything," Hermione tells him as she pens it onto one of the pieces of parchment that actually have space on them. "They're a comprehensive collage for time displacement, gravity, time dilation, and relativity. It needs a lot of work, but it'll keep us on track until the books get here. For now though . . . Harry, we need to work on the assumption that he was sent here, or at least that there's some _reason_ why he's here."

And Harry nods for awhile until they find themselves at her door in Head quarters, without registering the movement. The idea still wasn't settling with him. 

The idea still wasn't settling with him. 

He gets back to his own designated half and feels relieved when he doesn't run into Riddle. He doesn't have the energy to pretend like he can lie convincingly, nor does he have the brain power to follow whatever he's sure Riddle has to throw at him. He doesn't even want to _imagine_ what he's got up to today, and he knows he forgot to check with McGonagall that Tom actually made it to their nightly meeting. 

He doesn't even want to _begin_ thinking about how he's going to explain leaving Tom alone for so long. 

He has no interest in anything besides becoming horizontal as soon as possible.

Which, of course, is why he finds Tom lying in his bed as soon as he opens the door.

He doesn't have the _capacity_ —

He breathes. 

 _Hello_ , he hears, except for the fact that he **doesn't**.  _I've been waiting for you._

" _Why_?" Harry asks, because he just absolutely _cannot_ with this day. 

_I couldn't find you all day. It's a Saturday, Harry._

"I realize this, Tom. But that doesn't give you the right to—"

_We read on Saturdays, Harry._

The worst part is that he's right. 

Every Saturday since about October, he and Tom sat together and read in the common area of the Heads' quarters. They didn't ever talk about it, officially. They never even happened to mention it in passing, but they'd always gone and done it. Harry made it through a book and a half a month on this system, but he never really gave it any thought. 

The second worst part is that Harry doesn't know _why_ he's right. 

Sure, Harry's adaptable. He'd be the best housemate anyone could ask for because he's good at adapting unknowingly to things without question. Living with people who don't want you alive helps you pick up on how to cohabitate without making a spectacle of yourself, so Harry's got it down to a T. 

It'd never been a problem before. Luna preferred to have a full table for a breakfast and took her lunches and suppers alone. Draco couldn't be bothered to be awake anytime before noon and was actually a wonderful baker. Ron went to Muggle Catholic services sometimes because he couldn't fathom that many people sitting together in silence and feeling anything. Hermione was a terrible procrastinator and probably couldn't keep a desk organized to save her life.

All this, seemingly inconsequential to his life, but it was information that shaped his daily existence in his time spent with them. 

Tom like an obscene amount of sugar in his tea, but took his coffee black. Tom liked to read science fiction and dystopian novels and took a particular liking to  _1984._  He actually hated George Orwell for a number of reasons, but  _1984_ made several reappearances after a new book was devoured and Tom felt indecisive about what to read next. Tom kept a charmed bag on him at all times. When Harry had first asked about it, he had simply said, "Just in case," with no further explanation. He seemed wary and protective of it, despite the fact that no one could see it. He sewed himself a pocket in his new robes, and all other shirts they had bought him sometime near the beginning. 

Harry never asked what was in the bag, and it took him a considerable amount of time to come to terms with the fact that he didn't care.  

_Didn't you miss me, Harry?_

"No," he replied sternly. "Leave." 

_Why are you angry again?_

"I'm not angry, Tom. I'm tired."

_Why won't you talk to me, Harry?_

 "I _am_ talking to you, Tom."

"No, you're not."

No, Harry agrees, but somewhere that isn't in his head. Of course, he isn't going to respond to Tom . . . like _that_. The _last_ place Harry needs Tom is in his mind, but he can't tell him that. He's absolutely _exhausted_ , but he can't really tell Tom to Fuck Off, because that's _rude_ and it really wouldn't help him now. It'd wouldn't help _either of them_ to just say that he's _sick_ of Tom Riddle in his head, and he's _sick_ of Tom Riddle in his books and in the pages of books he doesn't read and in the pages of books that someone will probably try and write about him when he's long dead and sleeping. 

But then, at least, he won't be exhausted. 

He's exhausted _now_. 

_Why won't you come to bed, Harry?_

Harry  _breathes_. 

He clenches his fists and tries his best to reign in the rage that's slowly making its way up his throat. He swallows it, forcing a sinister sort of cool throughout his body. He curls his toes, and takes a step towards his wardrobe opposite the bed. 

"I know you can hear me," Tom says. "You've been able to hear me since that day with Miss Granger and Abraxas' grandson."

There's no real reason to lie, so he nods. 

"Are you going to tell _her_ about it?" There's a distinct sort of malice in his voice (which Harry ignores) as he sets his tie over the top of the door. 

He doesn't know which ' _her_ ' Tom is referring to, but he just shakes his head. Because, honestly, it's no one's business. Everybody's been wrong before, and they might be again in thinking that his mental connection to Voldemort stemmed from the Horcrux.  

Maybe they aren't and something is terribly wrong. 

But probably not. 

Harry changes mechanically. His bed clothes are nothing attractive, but he didn't come to impress.  _Maybe,_ he thinks lazily,  _the Muggle clothes will scare him away._

(Hint: of course they won't.)

Which, within a matter of minutes, is how he comes to lay silently next to Tom Riddle. 

They're quiet. It's a very quiet situation. He doesn't know what part of their conversation has Tom so grim, but he can see in the dim light that he is still frowning. He can _feel_ him frown, which is more unnerving than anything. 

He can't stand it. "What are you doing in here? Really?"  

There's nothing but Tom's breathing for a moment, Harry's in no hurry, but his eyelids only seem to be getting heavier. "I didn't care that you were gone," he starts. "There was nothing else to be doing, I suppose." Something appears to suddenly occur to Tom. "Aren't you worried about me going through your things?"

He probably should be, he decides, but his _things_ aren't here. The things that are important to him in any way, he doesn't keep at Hogwarts. They aren't _allowed_ here. "I figured you already would have by this point, and I know just as well that you didn't find anything."

"You're a simple man," Tom states, and though it sounds like a question, he doesn't appear to have an opinion on the matter. 

"I am," And he is, mostly. "We get enough here, and whatever else I need, I can manage myself."

Harry's on his back and he's staring at the ceiling, but he can feel Tom eyeing him. "Are you a war man, Harry?"

It's a fair question. Dumbledore never talked about the Muggle war when he spoke about Tom. Harry himself knew little about, only having learned when Hermione pointed out similarities between Voldemort and Chancellor Hitler. He knew something about labor camps and knew a little more about the Blitz and other attacks on London, but that was the extent. It wasn't hard to imagine, but he's never wanted to.

He decides for honesty. "I would like to believe I was something of a mercenary." Because he was, technically, if what he said back at his Documentation was true. 

These are things Harry likes to believe about himself. 

And at that, Tom tenses. Harry suddenly becomes aware of every part of Tom's along the side of his body that they are touching as it turns to something unyielding. "So, there _is_ a war?" His voice is steady, if only imperceptibly higher.

"Was," Harry says. "It's mostly finished now. We've got trials and reconstruction left."

But Tom, still, doesn't relax. "Is that why Dumbledore isn't the headmaster?"

"Yes."

"He died?"

Harry nods. "He was killed," he specifies. "but he was going to die anyway."

Tom considers this for a moment. "Of?"

Hesitation. "He came into contact with a cursed object, got cursed, and was just barely able to keep it contained. From what I understand, he was in a lot of pain and wouldn't have had much longer on his own."

"You don't seem too sympathetic," Tom notes, his body unwinding itself a little. 

Harry knows the lack of emotion in his voice sings to Tom and that it only asks more questions than it answers. He can't even lie to himself — it has nothing to do with how tired he is. He still mourns Dumbledore, but to think of how blinded the man had once been . . . It left no room for idolization. "I think he did the best he could. I think he was brave and ambitious and blinded by certain beliefs he didn't always _believe_ in. He did the best that anyone could have."

Harry would like to believe that that's what closure is.

Tom doesn't ask any more questions for a while, though Harry knows that he must be practically brimming. It's nice. Harry never realized how much he'd grown to like the solitary environment of Grimmauld. It's nice, just laying in the dark and quiet. 

Hogwarts never lost its resiliency, and things went back to as close to normal as they could since September. Meals — slowly, but surely — became lighter and louder, the memories of the Great Hall being used as a quasi-medical bay during the Battle not _gone_ , but masked with the joy of new memories. Official Quidditch games hadn't been deemed 'safe' yet, but scrimmages were happening almost daily, no houses left out. Slytherin was still a shell of its formal self in terms of a bodies-in-dorms ratio, but every day it seemed as if there was at least one more first year coming out of the woodwork. 

He was more than happy with the change, but he would be the first to admit it could be a little exhausting at times. 

That's when a thought occurs to Harry, and suddenly he's very awake.

He turns to face him. "Tom," he starts very slowly, hoping he won't have to repeat himself. "Tom, you know that we are safe here, right?"

Because Harry _is_ truly an _idiot_ who, sometimes, doesn't understand _why_ he has brain considering how little good use it gets in his head. Because he never bothered to make sure that Tom felt _safe_. He's pretty sure that no one did, actually, but it should have definitely been at the top of _his_ list. He had _hated_ Tom. He assaulted and insulted him, and was possibly responsible for him getting bronchitis; but not once did he inform Tom — Tom, who had just literally come from a world littered with its own war and corruption — that in addition to being (possibly _forever_ ) stuck out of his own timeline, he would not have to worry about getting burned in his bed by a Blitz, or tear gassed, or whatever it was one had to worry about when Muggles were at war. 

_'No German dictators bent on racial purification here, Tom. We didn't get taken over, Grindelwald is all gone, and the worse you're going to run into is Draco Malfoy, probably.'_

Never even fucking bothered with _that_. 

And _Tom_ . . .

Throughout Harry's epiphany, Tom is just there, his body tight again. Harry can't even imagine what he'd say if he were asked the same question, so it's only fair that he gives Tom the same leeway. 

Minutes pass. 

Harry can take a silence, but it's reasonable that everybody has their breaking point. "Tom, you know that _you_ are safe here, right? Nothing is going to happen to you." 

And then, because he's an idiot:

_I won't let anything happen to you._

A lot of things happen, then, and he doesn't get it all in one go:

Tom turns him on his back,  _no,_ because Tom is actually now on top of him,  _no,_ because Tom is actually straddling him, looking down Harry with the most passive expression on his face, like if he weren't just a little bit lower—

 _No_ , because Tom's got his hips digging into Harry's and he's slowly leaning _Down_ into Harry's space. It's Tom's hair in his face that really gets him going, because _okay_ , Tom Riddle is literally _on top of him_ right now, and he smells _really_ good and Harry is _really_ tired and there's not a lot of processing he can do about any of _this_ right _now_. 

(Harry would be bitter about it becoming a recurring theme in his life, but he's yet to notice it becoming a pattern.)

So, yeah.

Hair in the face.

 _That's_ what gets him. 

"What—?" 

That's all he's got.

Tom's breath fracturing itself on his face is making it hard to put sentences together, and all he keeps _moving_. Down to Harry's ear, to his throat, and to his collarbone. Harry doesn't feel Tom's mouth open, but he _does_ feel lips drag across and a shadow of teeth of teeth following. They don't stop anytime soon, and Harry can feel his body start to catch up: his breaths aren't coming as easily, his body feels hot and restless, and the feeling of that just goes _lower_ and _lower_ and—

 _Fuck_.

"I think you've got things quite turned around, Potter." Tom dips lower again, and Harry feels a warm, wet sensation over the curve of his ear. "You think you're in control here? You think you've got any idea of what you're dealing with?"  

Which, Harry _doesn't_ generally have any idea of what he's dealing with, and that's kind of the main problem in their lives. However, he doesn't think that's what Tom's talking about. If he could think himself out of the haze Tom is dragging him deeper into, he might know. Might have some idea. The cocktail of Tom on top of him, _speaking_ to him, Manipulating him (probably), and this doublespeak? Harry doesn't stand a chance. 

"It's laughable," Harry can hear the predatory smile-that-isn't-one in Tom's voice. "that you think you can _protect_ me. That you can _save_ _me_." Tom moves down again, and then his lips are resting lightly on Harry's neck somewhere near his pulse point. "That I'm just another stake for you to martyr yourself on. Pathetic, really, I think, that you're so desperate to—"

 ** _Gotchya_**.

Because if there was one thing that Harry _was_ used to, it was Tom Marvolo _Fucking_ Riddle monologuing him. And could anybody really expect the Saviour of the Wizarding world to simply lie there and take it, hands down and trembling?

Harry thought not.

As Tom talked himself blue in the face and angry, Harry let his hands fucking _glide_. _Down, down down_ , he went. He couldn't feel Tom getting hard because the _fucker_ was smarter than that. 

He just didn't factor in Harry knowing that. 

But _he_ _knew_. Harry knew That Look, and he knew the difference between _it_ , and the type of rage that Tom was trying to show him. Which, sure, was supremely unfair to Tom, but Harry knew this face. He learned it, long ago, and he had to relearn it in accordance to how Voldemort destroyed it. 

He knew this face, and right now, despite what Tom was telling him, there was no rage anywhere near it. At least, not directed at him. 

(He would have to unpack what the face was later, of course, but now was very much _not_ later.)

Harry doesn't say anything. He doesn't need to. Harry doesn't know much about power redistribution, but he knows who has it here, and he knows that it isn't about to change anytime soon while they're both in the same room. There's no need in being so brash as to talk about it. 

Tom's mouth is still open, and he's looking down at Harry with wide, angry eyes. He's gone still again, but he isn't as rigid. In fact, when Harry holds his breath just a little, there's something of a tremor running through Tom's body. Harry's tempted to start moving, just to _see_ —

No.

This was . . .

This was for scientific purposes only. 

His hand must have slipped a little, though, because Tom drew in this lovely stuttering breath, and then he was on the floor, taking the blanket and extra quilt with him. 

Harry assumed laughing, at this point, would have been rude. "Where are you going, Tom?"

Tom gave no sign that he was listening to Harry. Moonlight threw the shadow of the bed right over Tom's body, so he could see nothing in particular, except for him wrestling to untangle the bed sheets from his limbs. When he finally did, he was up in a shot of flustered triumph. Slinging one last spooked look at Harry before pushing himself through the door, chased down by Harry's laughter. (It's one of the first times he's laughed since the end of the War, and he tries to ignore how foreign the sound is.)

(He has better luck ignoring how tight his pajama pants are getting.)

* * *

Harry takes it that maybe he's missed some cues, but The Bedroom Incident ( _sigh_ ) has given him true perspective on that. 

Here's what he knows: He knows that he definitely needs to get Tom home. It was already at top of his To-Do, honest, but now it's a bit more pressing. He knows that Tom must be, at least, marginally attracted to him, and that Harry definitely doesn't have the emotional capacity to unpack whatever that has the chance at meaning _right now_. Maybe later, he thinks, when he doesn't have the chance to let it make him do something stupid. (Like let it ruin Tom's romantic future, or nurture it, or—)

 _No_. 

 _Focus_.

In summary, he knows those things. Oh, and he also knows that, in two weeks of work and time spent with Hermione's theory books and published journals, they've got nothing anymore useful than what they'd already had. 

That's probably important, too.

"I think the silence is giving me a headache," Hermione says one morning, a fleece wrapped tight around her shoulders.  

Harry has to agree. There's only a few days till Christmas, and nearly everyone is gone. Their friends are gone, mostly: Luna decided to go spend it with her father; the Weasleys are split between Shell Cottage and India; Neville is doing some sort of study further south, decidedly unable to be contacted; and Draco (who's only gone for two days) is trying and wrangle a visit with his mother. Hogwarts' population mainly consists of Harry, Hermione, Tom, and most of Slytherin, now. (He tries not to assume that it's probably because they don't have much of a family to go home to, and carries on with his day.)

"At least we don't have to waste energy on silencing charms," Harry offers, not looking up from his text. It's been translated into English, but it's Old English and a bad translation, and he's trying to keep all the background information he got from some of the linguistics textbooks straight in his head because he's got something coming up in Gaelic next and he's worried he'll have to translate it himself to make everything go faster. 

Hermione scoffs. "Yes, because that was truly the strenuous part in all this."

She's been edgy. Harry values his life, so he hasn't said anything to her, because Harry's got a track record with words (hint: he's bad at them), and he'd probably end up mentioning the fact that he thinks that her mood probably has something to do with Draco Malfoy. 

This is a _bad_ decision. 

Hermione's not a co-dependent person, he knows. She doesn't even rely on other people the way that Harry thinks a normal person ought to. Then again, he knows better than to assume any 'normal' attributes should be assigned to Hermione Granger. Whatever she has with Draco, though . . .

Harry definitely doesn't have the words for _that_. 

"I'm pretty sure this is useless," he says finally, rubbing his eyes and pushing the book away. "This 'astronomer' is just a pagan farmer and has been talking about his cat for sixteen pages. Not exactly a mind of the century."

Hermione nods in solidarity. "This man keeps talking about Cadair Idris being—" her eyebrows furrow, and she jerks the book closer to her, squinting. She finally closes it and throws it hard on the table with a flourish, effectively throwing the blanket off too. "I can't . . . I don't _know_. It's in _Patagonian Welsh._ It's smudged to all hell, and there's wax holding half of the pages together."

Harry could sympathize. "I think we need a break," he said, gently taking the book out of her reach and setting next to his 'Done, and to Never Be Read Again' pile. 

"I think we need a _drink_."

She _was_ the smart one. 

* * *

Harry had forgotten how lovely Gryffindor Tower could be when it wasn't buried in dust, blood, and bodies. He hadn't been back since fleeing from the pieces of rubble in the armchair, and no one had really been bragging about his old home to him, so he was allowed to forget.

The Head quarters were nice, no one could deny that. They held the same potential to be a home as every other place in the castle did. Everything was just . . . _more_. The Heads had their own kitchenette, their own book collection with an impossible bookshelf, separate bathrooms, separate reading rooms . . . Harry wasn't averse to luxury, but it just didn't suit him. 

"'Fraid I've just got the stuff that was in the Wilkins'," 

He doesn't ask if she broke into the Girls' dorms, and she doesn't ask why he's just sitting on the couch, staring at the unlit fireplace. It's a harsh reminder that they really aren't supposed to be here, nor are they supposed to be here getting _drunk_. (Technically they aren't supposed to be _anywhere_ getting drunk, but that goes without mentioning too.)

* * *

He's not slurring his words yet. "I just think that, for all you both complained about Slytherin, it's a little ironic."

She is, but only a little. "Ah," she waves him off. "Parkinson's good for him. She's a right bitch when she wants to be, though."

Harry smiles and brings the bottle to his lips without taking a drink. " _Draco's_ a right bitch when he wants to be and _you_ still keep him around."

She slaps him for that, just a little, but the merlot on his shirt isn't as bothersome as the look that comes over her. "It's not _like that,_ " she says, and she's all serious now, but he doesn't know about what. 

She sounds like she's had this conversation before. 

"I didn't say it had to be," Harry says softly. "but you _do_ keep him around."

Hermione rolls her eyes and cradles her bottle between her hands. "He _stays_ , but he is not _kept_." She's not defensive, at least.

"Yeah?" he asks, and he doesn't know why he bothers. He has no idea what the fuck she means by that, but Hermione is _fun_ like this, tipsy and warm. He's not about to open a bloody interrogation.

"Yeah . . . " ( _Fuck me, she actually looks_ happy _._ ) "Kind of like with you and _Thomas_."

Oh, for the love of—

" _Not_ like with me and _Thomas_ , actually." he bites. "There is no 'me and Thomas'."

(These are things he likes to believe about his life.)

"Suuuuuuuure," She turns so her back is resting against him. "He sets a couch on fire because of you, and you can't even bother with a—"

" _What?_ " he interrupts, because _what_?

"Oh, did I not tell you?" Harry just stares at her. She clears her throat and squirms a little. "Right, well, do you remember earlier this month? The day we were holed up in the library?" 

"That's been about every day," he says, but he's got an idea of the one she's referring to.  

"The first time," she huffs. " _You_ were avoiding _him_ then, and we spent all day in the library trying to make sense of everything. You didn't check on him, you didn't want to talk about him outside of 'work'—"

"There was no reason to talk about him outside of 'work', Hermione."

"Sure," _Unconvinced_. "And, so, when we got back, I checked with our portrait on how he'd done all day, and she said—"

" _Wait_ ," Harry's not sure he's got this right. "We don't have a portrait."

He couldn't see her face, but he knew that she was probably biting her lip. "We do, actually. Probably forgot to mention that, too," she says with complete nonchalance, vaguely worrying over his reactions. "She's no one of particular consequence. A nice, old Head girl who wished to remain unseen. I found her a little while after we moved in. Usually, she just sleeps, but that day she woke up to something burning in her common room. She didn't like it and told me that Tom had been angry.

"She said he started moving around the quarters looking for you, and then me, and that when he couldn't find us, he became irritated. She was going to talk to him, she told me, but he was so silent and still that she was worried that it would just send him over the edge. She said he sat there for half the day without moving, just staring ahead and _thinking_. 

"Finally, he snapped."

When it becomes clear that she's not going to continue, Harry presses. "He _snapped_?"

She nods. "She tells me the fire was blue," Hermione says in a quiet, little voice. "It ate up the book shelf. It crawled around her portrait and peeled the wallpaper off. All the glass in the room dissolved, and then he set fire to the couch."

Harry thought very hard for a moment. The ratty, patchwork couch — which, in Harry's private opinion, deserved to be set on fire — was sitting in the common room of their quarters right now, he knew. It was sitting there, perfectly in tact (or, as much as it could be) in the middle of the common room. It had to be, because he just saw it this morning, and yesterday, and the day before that, and the every day within the two weeks between _then_ and _now_. 

"I think you should spend some more time with Tom, Harry," Hermione said, and he really didn't want to agree with her. "I think he's sort of . . . imprinted on you, or something."

At that, Harry had to at least chuckle. "Tom isn't a baby bird," ( _No_ , Harry is definitely _not_ being sarcastic to hide some sort of deep-seated fear.) "Tom's a big boy, Hermione, and he can handle a little alone time. He probably prefers it, actually."

But Harry's already replaying that night in his head. He's trying to piece together Tom's face, his eyes, specifically, when talking about the time Harry was gone. He _seemed_ angry. Tom _had_ been angry. So angry, in fact, that he . . .

That he hid in Harry's bedroom for God knows how long, waiting for him to come back. 

Harry frowned. 

Hermione carried on, disappointment coloring her words a little. "There's nothing wrong with being afraid sometimes, Harry. You were the first person to treat him with some basic dignity since he's been here. The fact that he's connected to you because of that isn't a bad thing. You wanted him to trust you, didn't you?"

And even though Harry's never thought as much in so many words, he nods. It's the most beneficial thing, Tom trusting him. Harry doesn't know if Tom actually has the ability to trust another person or be open with one, but if he can, now's as good a time as any for him to start. The more context they can get from Tom about how he came to be here, the better, but he knows that Tom's not just going to hand it over to him. 

Right?

With Tom, though . . . Tom's been avoiding him. Harry couldn't find him for three days after The Incident, and even after he did, Tom still tried his best to avoid Harry. He left whatever room Harry entered, he didn't take meals at the scheduled time, he never showed his face in the common room. 

They didn't even read together on Saturdays anymore. 

And Harry wasn't bothered by this fact. By _any_ of them. Honest. They were more like mild inconveniences that Harry couldn't help being constantly aware of.

Whatever the case was, Hermione didn't need to know that.

Probably. 

* * *

They spend the rest of the day in Gryffindor common room, and they don't talk about Tom or Draco again. Instead, they talk more about Ron and Pansy dating, and the trials, and their Documentations, and what the hell is going on with Seamus and Dean, and literally anything else except the future.

They don't drink continuously, but they drink enough that there's more tripping than walking on the way back to Quarters. Hermione is something of a lightweight, but Harry still trusts her judgment more than anything so when she suggests that they do this again sometime, he has to agree. When she says that this should be their _Christmas_ , he agrees to that, too, without really thinking about it. 

They get back. They get past all the inquisitive ( _disapproving_ ) eyes of the portraits and the like, miraculously _don't_ run into McGonagall, and are just barely able to remember how to get _in_. They're laughing the whole way, though, and it all just feels very _good_.

He doesn't expect Tom to be _right there_ , however, when they walk in. He doesn't expect the quiet way he holds his lithe body: cross-legged, compact, and yet so very sure of himself. It's nice, and because Hermione is almost fully reliant on Harry to keep her gravity in check, he gets to bask in it a moment before Tom lets them know he's noticed them. (Tom notices everything, you see, so he probably knew they were here long before they decided to come in.)

Harry smiles and begins to move forward. "Hello!"

It's more of a shout than a greeting, but it does the trick. Tom doesn't even bother closing his book or looking up at them, "Hello," he says back, no inflection in his voice. 

Hermione suddenly rights herself. Harry's not ready for it and stumbles a bit, but now she's got a steadying hand on him. He doesn't know what she's taken, but he suddenly wants some very much. His isolated interactions with Tom have never gone particularly _well_ , and adding alcohol to the mix was, admittedly, a bad idea. 

Hermione's got her all-business face now. "Well, Thomas, I can trust you to take care of our Harry?" 

_Our Harry?_

Whatever she means by it, it does its job in getting a reaction out of Tom. The fireplace is casting such good light, Harry can see everything, obscured only by his delay in mental processing. He can only see Tom in profile, but it's enough to know that his mouth is turned up at the side in some sort of lovechild between a grimace and a smirk. His eyes are playful, but he still doesn't look up from his book. "I think he'll be fine. How much trouble do you think he could get in between here and his bedroom?"

Okay, he'd need to sort through _this_ in the morning. 

Hermione just smiles indulgently and looks up at Harry. "You'd be surprised."

 _Now_ Tom marks his page and closes the book. He looks at them, finally, and everything in his look is pure amusement.

Harry pouts. "I feel like I'm missing something here." Statement, not a question.

He usually feels that way. 

Hermione and Tom exchange some sort of look, and then Hermione is walking him over to the couch. She pushes on his shoulders until he collapses under the weight, and nudges him closer to Tom as he goes. He doesn't miss how Tom is just watching on as this happens, doing nothing to either aid Hermione in whatever quest she's put herself to, or keep up any distance or boundary between him and Harry. 

_Alright._

Hermione stands with a pleasant smile on her face. "Don't stay out here for too long, alright? We've had a long day. And you," She turns to look directly at him now. "Get some rest. No work time until after Christmas, doctor's orders."

 _Whose doctor?_ he wants to ask, but she pats his head and is gone before he can. 

"Did you have a good day?" Tom asks, and he's reading again. 

It doesn't bother Harry, not having Tom's full attention. He isn't drunk, he knows, but he's relaxed enough that being alone with Tom like this doesn't bother him either. "No," he admits. "Idris had a cat and the whole thing was an absolute _bust_."

Saying that out-loud has Harry thinking he's got some things turned around in his head, but Tom should be able to get the point. 

Tom laughs — rather abruptly — at that and closes his book again. "I'm sorry about the cat." 

Harry scoffs. " _I'm_ sorry about the pagan."

There's an eyebrow raised, but Tom doesn't look like he's about to say anything more on the subject. 

"Why don't you ever come to help us, then, if you know what we're doing?" 

This is _not_ a good question, and it's one that Harry is pretty sure he's already got an answer to. True, he's never told Tom why he disappears for all hours of the weekend, but he's never been stupid enough to assume Tom doesn't know. 

They're desperate enough for it now. Hermione's brilliant, but she isn't all-knowing, and Harry hates himself for putting all the stress solely on her. 

"I've been informed that I'll be brought in when I'm needed," Tom tells him, equal parts amused and curious. He's looking at Harry now head-on, and the stare is . . . very far away. "Don't think I haven't been you both." At that, he gestures to the book in his hands, bringing it eye-level with Harry so he can read the title:  _ **Beginner's Guide to Time Travel**_.

Harry wrinkles his nose. "I think Hermione's already read that, for our third year."

Tom nods, placating look still plastered on. "She did, but she read the other one." A moment passed, and when Tom could see that Harry didn't fully understand, he elaborated. "Harry, you know the difference between Light and Dark magic, yes?"

He almost wants to laugh. "Of course."

"And that Light and Dark wizards and witches tend not to agree on things?"

Yeah, Harry's noticed something like that happening a time or two. He doesn't bother to dignify that with an answer, opting to instead make a go-on motion with his hand. 

Tom clears his throat. "I see. Well, for every other book out there published by a Light wizard, a Dark wizard will publish another one similar to it, but with whatever facts they feel have been left out."

Tom seems to be measuring Harry's reaction, but Harry doesn't have much of one to offer. He didn't notice a pattern like the one Tom's describing, but it's a logical pattern to follow. He thinks back to the Half-Blood Prince's book and how it makes sense that would be happening all the time.

It clicks, finally. "So you're reading the Dark version of the Beginner's guide. What good would that do you?" 

A scowl. "None, at the moment. This book describes the advantages of time travel, how to get benefits without the much-warned consequences— Things that are very much irrelevant to us and our cause.

"I've never really been interested in time travel. There's about as much information in my time as there is here, but I've never really bothered with it."

Harry shrugs. "Neither was I. It was hard enough saving Buckbeak and Sirius, I don't think I'd want to use it to save the Wizarding World."

Another cocked eyebrow. "Buckbeak and Sirius?"

"Hippogriff and my godfather," Harry supplies. "It was a very interesting day." And he leaves it at that. 

They sit in a comfortable silence for a little bit more, Tom reading and Harry thinking. He thinks more about Sirius and Buckbeak, and Tom just stares at his book. He isn't turning pages, though, which makes Harry think that he really isn't reading at all. He looks a bit sideways to Harry, actually, and maybe it's because Harry puts people sideways when he's thinking, or it's because he's slowly sinking into the warmth and comfort of the couch. If he were alert enough, he'd know that, empirically, he's sliding downwards. However, he isn't, so he doesn't, and waits until his head is in Tom's lap to actually notice. 

"Oh," Harry doesn't have a plan to start moving anytime soon, but he does have the grace to show his surprise. Tom is just so _warm_ right now, and Harry is just so very very tired. He knows he should probably be taking himself to bed right now — that it's the smart thing to do — but every second that goes by, Harry finds himself losing bones and willpower. 

He's asleep before he can weigh the pros and cons of that.

* * *

He wakes up in his bed, under his covers, and fully-clothed. 

_Huh._

* * *

May it never be forgotten that Harry _knew_ this was a bad idea.  

To be fair, it has most of the ingredients of what Harry's wanted his entire life: he's surrounded by his friends on Christmas Eve, he's full of a nice dinner, he has no responsibilities, and—

"Hermione, _darling_ , I understand that you're allowed to have some reservations (this being your territory and all that) but are you telling me that you really are such a bore as to not allow me to dance on your truly love coffee table?" 

Pansy. 

Of course, someone's brought Pansy. Harry, distantly, remembers telling her himself on one of their monthly, _'Hey, while sleeping with every other former-Dark wizard, have you found one that wants to kill me yet?'_ talks, but she hadn't seemed keen on it. 

He's going to guess that something between the Firewhisky and Elf-made wine changed her mind. 

He misses Hermione response in favor of heading to the conjured table of drinks. He's been informed that he's not allowed to leave until presents are doled out and opened, which is honestly fine by him, but he would prefer not to be entirely sober for the entire affair. 

The room itself is almost intoxicating: fairy lights hung up around the perimeter of the room, the smell of the dinner Hermione and Luna had put together and the sweets Mrs. Weasley had sent them, the laughing, the talking, the _life_ in the room . . . They didn't have a real tree, but they surrounded all the presents around a drawing of one Teddy made (and thankfully _didn't_ put his name on) and sent Harry for Christmas. 

"She seems like a lovely girl."

Tom looks nice. Harry doesn't much care for fashion, but the black slacks and red button down suit him _very_ well. 

Everyone else looks nice, too, mostly dressed in sweaters, dress shirts, and Christmas dresses. They're all relaxed and well-rested, and the atmosphere is kept muted with the drinks and the fire. 

Harry nods at the previous observation. "She is," he affirms. "Parkinson." 

Tom looks down at the drink in his hand. "I think I know her grandfather. Met him at a Malfoy function a year ago."

"She's not quite what you'd expect?" Harry guessed, pouring himself a small glass of something out of the unlabeled blue bottles. 

"He'd be appalled."

They laugh. And then they stop laughing. Something else happens, and they talk more, and then they laugh more. The cycle continues, and most of it is lost on Harry. It's a good night. It's not the type of night that you really live in, more is it one that you remember fondly later.

It lasts until just before midnight — until Hermione informs them all to circle up in the common area. Someone's moved the sofa and coffee table, and Harry discovers, for the first time, that there's been a rug underneath all that gaudy mess of interior decorating. 

He moves to sit (no use in protesting presents now), but is stopped by a hand on his arm. 

Tom's hand. 

"Actually, Harry," he murmurs over the buzz of sound. "I'd like to give you your gift . . . _elsewhere_."

Harry bites his lip. He knows there's no use in debating how bad of an idea this is, really. He knows he's going to go with Tom, whether he likes it or not, and that something else is going to happen that completely turns him sideways again. Harry's still feeling like he's sideways from the knowledge (and evidence!) that he passed out on Tom Riddle, and that Tom Riddle tucked him into bed. 

Then again, this could turn him right side up again. 

(He ignores the fact that he knows it isn't going to.)

(That it's never that easy with Tom Riddle.)

(That it might never be.)

"Harry?"

And so, of course, he goes.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To address (and probably say too much):
> 
> This chapter was nothing special in and of itself, but it's the biggest hurdle I had to jump in order for all the rest of it to flow properly, so forgive me if some parts seem more awkward and rushed than others. 
> 
> It's investigation time! The coming chapters are going to get a little more in-depth about how Tom came to be here, so watch out for me fumbling through fake science. On the flip side (hopefully), we're going to get to see our resident geniuses try and unravel this thing, so God Save the Dialogue. 
> 
> I know you may be wondering about the time jumps, and so am I, frankly. My decisions came down to this: I only have so many lines within the stanzas I can work with, and I already have designs on what I want with some of them. I always knew it would be Christmas by this line, I just didn't know how I was going to get there. I'm here, and I think that's okay. Everything else would have just been filler chapter, anyway, so instead, it's our longest chapter yet! I will have you know that I feel god-awful for the delay with this. In working on this update, the longer it took, the more I felt I needed to add. From now on, however, chapters won't be this long and will actually serve some sort of purpose. 
> 
> I don't know how we're already through half of the poem. You all have been so wonderful and encouraging and kind, and I thank you so much for taking the time to read this thing I wrote (and, hopefully, other things I've written too ;). 
> 
> Questions:
> 
> Is an NSFW chapter necessary?
> 
> What should I change for next chapter/s that you did/didn't like here?
> 
> Comments? Concerns? Questions? Please leave them below!
> 
> Thank you, and happy reading!


	9. Sew Your Emeralds Into Gold

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He gives his harness bells a shake

"Again." 

He throws a bright, yellow curse at Harry this time. It's something that, should it work, will cause pockets to form around Harry's lungs in order to slowly crush them under Tom's command. 

It hits him square in the chest, but nothing happens. 

" _Again_."

He throws a soft-looking lavender hex next. It's supposed to make Harry deaf to anything that isn't the sound of Tom's voice. He's tried this one already, but he'd love to see it work on Harry, if only once and if only to prove Granger wrong: his magic _would_ work on Harry, he just had to try _harder_.

"Again!"

The severity of her tone wasn't helping. 

Across from the enchanted dueling room — the infamous Room of Requirements — Granger's sitting at a re-enforced table with notes sprawled across it in some sort of complicated pattern. She looks bored and frustrated, and Tom could bet anything that she was only seconds away from casting at Harry herself, just to see _something_ hit him today. 

Tom didn't mind so much. He didn't know if this was helping him work through repressed anger or just satisfying his constant need to curse the wizard in front of him for whatever reasons Harry never failed providing on a day-to-day basis. That, topped with the fact that Harry didn't even try to _fight back_ . . .

He had to stop himself from remembering the fact that it wasn't his hypothesis being dashed against the proverbial rocks in order to keep himself from swooning. 

"We've tried everything," Tom states obviously. "I've tried everything from jinxes to curses, to simple Light or healing spells."

Granger drags a hand through her hair. "I know. It would make sense with the Boggart Proposal if you couldn't hit him with anything Dark, but if you can't hit him with _anything_ . . . "

"Hermione, a dementor boggart can still knock somebody unconscious from soul-sucking." Harry offers, clearly trying to be of some use. "I don't think intent would really have anything to do with it if Tom was a boggart."

Her forehead hits the table with a high whine slipping out.

"It was a good thought," Harry assures her, moving to the enlarged list on the back wall. He crosses off the remaining evidence of the Boggart Proposal staring them all in the face and slides to sit on the ground underneath it. "It just didn't work out. I'd say just throw those notes in the fire and let's move on."

"We don't have much to move on to," she confesses, laying her head on its side to look at him. "I have notes on three other theories but, even on paper, they look weak. One involves blood magic, but if Tom can't even heal you, I don't see a way for him to make you bleed."

Tom listens to this as intently as possible, without looking so outwardly. He thinks he has an idea of what she's referring to, but she's right: it's a weak one. He moves to sit at the table across from her, requesting a chair from the room. It's there by the time he reaches back for it, and he sits, staring at some notes that are turned his way. 

"Why would Tom, specifically, need to make me bleed?" 

Hermione shrugs a little, quite a feat in her position. "Something about 'his soul coming into contact with your timeline'. Could be vice versa even." She shrugs and hides her face again. "I told you it's bad."

It really was. 

Either way, though, Tom was going to waste neither his nor Harry's blood for this foolishness.

Tom reaches out a little to brush some of Hermione's hair back. He almost wishes he could feel sorry for the girl. Her mind comes close to rivaling his own, and he can imagine the struggle it must be for her to simply _not know_ what to do now. They weren't looking for an answer hid between the pages of a book or making a long, complicated new potion out of a fragmented recipe. 

They were trying bend time, space, and magic to their whim, trying to unravel it. 

 _From scratch_. 

Hell, it was a little infuriating for himself, if he was being honest. Yes, he had plans and theories just as well, but they were in only a slightly better condition than Hermione's. He was thankful no one had asked for them, specifically, yet, because he really wouldn't know what to tell them. Tom still didn't have all that he needed from this time period to form anything that could point to something in _this_ environment to be the culprit, and he had a sneaking suspicion that that was where the problem lied. 

He shakes his head. He's accepted that the truth was going to be hidden from him. He's noticed Harry, Hermione, and their brood hiding things from him since he's been here: newspapers, books written after his time, students (on one very memorable occasion) and the small correspondence they've received from the outside world. He doesn't know if they know he's noticed yet, but either way is fine with him. 

He doesn't need their permission, no matter what he allows them to believe. 

"Maybe we should call it in for today," Harry finally says, voice more tired than it ought to be. "You're both exhausted and your energy shouldn't be wasted on things we know won't work."

That has Hermione out of her chair and almost charging at Harry. "You'd like us to _waste_ yet another day?"

Harry looks properly terrified, but he reigns it in a little before he speaks. "You're tired, Hermione — out of commission." 

Tom may not know Hermione that well, but he knows her well enough that he can't dream of a situation that would compel Harry to say this to her face. 

And from the looks of it, Harry doesn't know either. 

" _I'm_ out of _**commission**_?" she questions scathingly. Her face clears, like Harry has just solved some big problem for her. "I don't _feel_ out of commission. Tom," she turns to face him. "Do you feel 'out of **_commission_** '?"

He blinks and smirks. "I feel like I have increasing less to do with this conversation."

She drops her head, her eyes wild and her laugh a little manic. "I simply cannot handle you two," she hisses. She looks up and looks softer, turning to Harry with a small, sad smile on her lips. "I can't solve this thing if you're going to coddle me, Harry. I am tired, yes, but this is tiring." She moves closer to him, and Tom jerks, simultaneously moving towards Harry and restricting himself from doing so. She lifts a hand to his shoulder and he has to remember  _Hermione would never hurt Harry_ before he's able to settle back in the chair, grateful their too busy looking at each other to notice his outburst. "You can't do this without me."

Tom didn't know the connotations to that statement, but he knew it was true. Allowed to work to his full potential, Tom thinks he might be able to solve some part of this. The part about how he got here, at least, if not the rest of it. He could now, maybe, but every day it feels like they're running out of more and more time that they don't seem to be able to spend. 

Harry nods solemnly. "I wouldn't want to, Hermione, but I'm not going to let this run you into the ground."

"I've suffered worse."

They share a look. 

A moment passes with Harry and Hermione just looking at each other with a private sort of melancholy. Tom doesn't really think he wants or needs to be here for this. 

Thankfully, he doesn't have to say anything.

"Now, I don't think there's much more that we have to do to prove that Tom is human," Hermione walks to the table and picks up what appears to be a random assemblage of parchment. She throws them, and they suspend above their heads and expand. "These theories revolve around him being something else, and while I would not like to completely disregard them, I think it'd be safe to let them take the backseat for now."

In front of his eyes, the list began to cross itself out systematically. 

~~_Inferi_ ~~

~~_Illusion_ ~~

~~_Bogg_~~ _art_

_Born again_

_Horcrux_

"Horcrux?" 

The room seems to break open at that. Harry's eyes frantically move to the parchment, as if he, somehow, hadn't quite seen it before. Hermione's back is turned to him, but he can see her straighten and smooth her movements. She's the calm to all of this, and Tom thinks that's just as well. 

"What is a horcrux?" 

Hermione doesn't bother turning around. "You don't know?"

Tom is too busy studying Harry. He looks absolutely gobsmacked, and eyes Tom intently as Tom answers hesitantly. "I've heard a little. Even in the Darker books, they're scarcely mentioned."

That _was_ true. Whether he purposefully neglected to let Hermione and Harry ( _if_ he was even still listening, the _idiot_ ) know that he may have done some more _independent research_ outside of textbooks and the like, remained to be proven. 

Hermione doesn't say anything about that, however, and simply nods. "There's a little bit of . . . context. To the theory, I mean. So I can't really get into the specifics of it—"

"With me." he finishes for her, his mind shifting itself around with this new avenue. 

She nods. "It's not a valuable theory, anyway," she says, and it almost sounds like she's trying to reassure him. "I thought of it a few days before Christmas, and I just haven't bothered crossing it off the list."

She's actually not a bad liar, but because Tom doesn't think he needs to tell her that, he decides on something else instead. "I think there could be value to the theory. You should discuss it with Harry, and get back to me with your findings." And then, "Barring anything that could fracture our precious timeline," for good measure. 

Harry seems to compose himself then. "You don't even have a Horcrux." _Yet_.

It's an unspoken, obvious add-on to the sentence. (Not a question. Again.) For a moment, Tom wonders if Harry knows exactly how much he gives away in a single interaction. It'd be quite upsetting if he didn't, but he hasn't even known Harry for a year and he's already noticed Harry's tendency to not notice things. 

"Not to my quasi-reliable recollection," he says solely for Harry's benefit. "However, I _could_ have one, so says Miss Granger."

"Do you want one?" is returned just as quickly.

 _Well_ . . . Tom shrugs. "I haven't thought extensively on it, yet. I wasn't planning on making too many life-altering decisions while I can't even cast magic out of school." _Though that's never stopped me before._  

Harry doesn't look convinced, but he doesn't say anything more. 

Hermione moves, and with the wave of her hand, the list returns to its normal size and is promptly thrown into the fire. When she comes back to the table, she looks mildly uncomfortable, taking her original seat and squirming a bit. "As long as you're okay with it, Harry and I could explore this further."

"I would just like to get this solved, Ms. Granger," he says, and that is mostly true. "How it happens doesn't really matter to me."

_You fucking **liar**. _

Tom smirks.  _It's about time you joined us, Harry._

 _You've got something planned._ Harry accuses, but his face is as blank as it was before. 

Tom stands, stretching his arms a little and moving slowly towards the exit. "I'll leave you both to discuss and plan. You know where I'll be."

_Bastard._

The smile on his face doesn't waver until he makes it back to his own room. 

* * *

**I'm dying.**

The idea sounds wild in his head, too, but he knows that he has to come to term with the facts that it's really just as plausible as anything else. He had no specific memory as to what he'd been doing the day he "disappeared" and the only reason he knew it was May was that, for some reason, the idea of flowers in full bloom refused to leave him. He could remember his life, but not as if he had been an active participant. He could feel, but some days, he felt things only in the form of an echo through all of his senses. 

It was something like being a co-pilot to his own existence, and if this wasn't the extent of the unpleasantness that was Death, Tom didn't want to ever find out what was. 

"Do you do this a lot, Tom Riddle?"

"Excuse me?"

The blonde girl — who he will assume is Miss Lovegood until told otherwise — is standing directly in front of him, too close to allow him to feel any amount of comfort. Her hair is shorter than it was when he saw her his first night here. She's looking up at him, her eyes trained somewhere just past him. 

He was genuinely surprised to see her. Though the Head quarters weren't exactly secluded, they were a bit far off from the other houses. He could see the portrait waiting to let him in, but he thought it just as well to be here. 

 _How much trouble is there in somebody wearing_ bangles _?_

"I said—"

"No," he interrupts, because if there was anything more terrifying than death, to him, it might've been redundancy. "Who is Tom Riddle?" 

(In all honesty, he'd begun to wonder that himself these days.)

She just smiles and tilts her head to the side. "You'll have to forgive me," she tells him, her tone still sounding like she's only half awake. "I always have had trouble remembering the difference between what I am and am not supposed to know."

His stomach flips at that, but he keeps his face still. "My name is Thomas Gaunt." And it sounds just as sure as he could hope to be. "Who are _you_?" 

"Can I be somebody else, too?" she asks him instead, and though he looks for it, he can't find anything remotely close to mocking in her tone. "I've never wanted to be anybody else, but you make it look impressively easy."

He knows that maybe now is a time to feel terrified or threatened or cornered, but he can't help but want to keep her talking. 

"Do I?" he inquires, never having thought about this charade in-depth. All he had to do was go by a different name, after all. It was hardly fraud. 

She nods, something that looks slightly painful with her neck craned to the side that way. "You do," she affirms. "but I don't think you want to speak with me about it." 

He does, actually, but he's glad that one of them is trying to keep them on track. "I believe you asked me a question, Miss Lovegood."

Her head snaps straight. "Oh! I did!" She reaches forward and puts a hand on his arm. "Do you think about death often, Tom Riddle?"

_Oh._

"As often as anybody else, I suppose." He isn't trying not to lie, but he doesn't think he is anyway.

Her expression melts into something that might look like neutrality on someone else. On her, it looks like consideration, which Tom finds infinitely more terrifying for some reason. And then, "I don't think you're dying."

"That's nice."

"I don't think you're real."

 _That's not._  

"You're alive!" she rushes, tugging on his arm a bit. "But I don't think you are . . . _who you say you are_."

Tom raises an eyebrow, his face and body still calm despite his emotions. "I thought we just discussed this."

"Yes, but I don't think you're aware of how _'not you'_ you actually are."

"I'm _not me_?"

She nods. "Precisely."

"I am," he begins, his face scrunching itself into what his thoughts command. "confused."

She seems to think about this tilting her head again but to the other side. Her face is pinched much like how his feels, but somehow, hers is more open and delicate. He feels as though one word would send her off in a completely different direction, and though one part of him desperately wants to be done with this conversation, another part is keeping him rooted to the spot and asking her the most ridiculous questions.

"You _are_ organic, Tom, but you are not _living_."

"They are synonyms," he argues. "I can't really be one if I am not the other."

"That's a shame, then, considering that's what you are." Non-argumentative. 

 _Factual_. 

He closes his eyes to collect himself, something like hysteria scratching itself against his sternum in an attempt to break free and lunge at Miss Lovegood.

That would be _bad_ , though. Tom doesn't know much now. He knows he has to vehemently deny whatever comes out of her mouth and that it might be a good idea to go to his room now, but not much else. 

"What am I?" 

"Something organic," she says, and underneath the far-away tone, it kind of sounds like _I'm sorry_. "Something dead."

* * *

He manages to make it to his room without injury, but he doesn't remember how. All of his insides are shaking, and when he sits on the side of his bed, so are his hands and his legs and his feet and his head and even the tips of his _hair_ —

He sits on the edge of his bed for a long time, staring at his bouncing foot and the floor beneath it. 

Eventually, he slides down his bed and lands on the floor with an audible hit. He knows he should feel some sort of pain from the slight fall, but he doesn't. He doesn't know if he really hears the sound of it, anyway.

He can hear Harry and Hermione enter the quarters sometime later. He doesn't feel the need to seek either of them out with the new information or with his distress, and they don't come to him, so it's just as well. 

The sun vanishes completely, eventually. 

There's a knock at the door and some speaking (probably directed at him), but he does not answer it. Doesn't even try to move. 

He feels a little bit like vanishing completely too. 

It's just as well. 

* * *

_"Merry Christmas, Harry."_

_Tom doesn't look at him when he shoves the fist-sized box into Harry's chest. Their hands don't brush when Harry takes the gift from him, and Tom can't quite identify how he feels about that. It's a cold feeling, whatever it is, but he decides it's ridiculous and reminds himself why he's doing this in the first place._

_He hears the unfamiliar sound of the paper ripping and glass of the box sliding against Harry's calloused hands._

_It's a nice sound._

_(Maybe Tom will put that in a box, too, before he leaves.)_

_He's looking just past Harry at his door. He can't help the anxiety leaking through that maybe it wasn't such a good idea to have Harry here, in his room. It's too . . . intimate. Too personal. The whole point of this was to shift the power back to him after destroying some of it that night he made the stupid mistake—_

_He hears the hitch in Harry's breath. "Tom, what is this?"_

_Odd question. "I couldn't think of what to get you," he lies, reaching out for the box. "None of your friends seemed like they'd be inclined to help me, and I didn't feel like asking them." Which is true._

_Harry would probably like something to do with Quidditch. He, apparently, didn't play, but Tom could always count on him being at a game or a scrimmage before his weekends were entirely engulfed full-force by Hermione. Though Harry read well and faster than average, he didn't seem to get any joy from it, nor anything else that had a pure, academic base. He liked music enough, but only listened when somebody else was already. No luxury items of any kind were found with his belongings when Tom checked, so he truly had been at a loss for some time._

_The watch hands had been something he'd thought of in a potions class that he'd decided not to pay attention to, and they hadn't left him alone since. He would never admit where he'd gotten the watch, but it wasn't anything that would be missed. It was a ratty old thing, much like the one he'd seen hidden away in Harry's trunk, and probably wouldn't be missed. He had dissected it manually with some tools the Room of Requirements lent him_ once, _and collected the delicate hands of the watch with ease._

_And now, here they were, spelled in a way that kept them suspended, equidistant from all sides of the glass box. They moved at smooth intervals, but not according to time._

_His heartbeat was now held in Harry Potter's hands, wrapped in something that was torn out of time._

_It was quite poetic._

_"I thought it would make sense," he tells him. "I thought it might inspire something sort of resolution."_

_"Oh," Harry says, and then he moves to set the box down on a chair near the door. Tom resolves not to watch Harry as he walks around him, and simply waits in his spot, trying to hold still._

_It's not really that he wants to move, but with Harry moving, he doesn't want to sit still._

_Doesn't seem like a fair trade._

_"It's moving faster," Harry says._

_Tom shrugs, knowing Harry can't see him. "It does that sometimes."_

* * *

He wakes up in the morning and settles into the feeling of nothing.

* * *

"Has your new research proven fruitful?"

"I would have thought your dogs would have told you, Minny? Do you have a slack leash?"

" _Mr. Riddle_ , I _must_ remind you—"

"No, the research has not proven fruitful. My magic doesn't work on the resident enigma, if that makes you feel any better. I can only harm him by the most barbaric ways that even _I_ wouldn't bother with."

"I was not referring to your escapades with Mr. Potter and Ms. Granger." 

"Oh?" 

"Indeed. You couldn't expect me to believe you would just sit back and allow them to solve this first?" 

"I suppose I forgot your tendancy to _not_ underestimate." 

"I don't remember it being a building block of our relationship. The research?"

" . . . No. I've found _nothing_."

* * *

 

He spends the next day laying in a conjured darkness, paying attention solely to whatever rudimentary bond he shares with Potter.

Had it not been for their mental communication, he'd think the bond one-sided. It was nothing noticeable, espcially not if he wasn't speicifcally looking for something like this. He'd assume a magial summons or bond, but when Potter seemed (and had proven) as clueless as Tom was, any theory even remotely connected to that had to be scrapped. No one else had come to collect him, either, which made those connections even bleaker. 

Before the grounds had frozen over, Tom had went out to ( _again_ ) look around the area where they had said he had been found. Optional time travel, yet again, proved itself to be an unlikely candidate without any device to be seen, and with his wand being searched within an inch of its life (to no avail) he could only assume it had been wiped before he came.

_But if no one brought him here, why did he feel such an connection to Potter?_

He couldn't actually read Potter's mind through the "connection" — not that he had _tried_ , of course — but there was a certain omnipresence about Potter within his own cranium. Any thought he had could be tied to the other wizard in some way, and even if it couldn't, the absolute, self-enforced pressure within his skull of  _do not think about him, don't you dare think about him_  was actually painful. He couldn't feel Potter's actions and feelings or sniff out his location, but he could wager guesses that were usually right and translate whatever was being pushed through into some form of tangible thought. 

**_Stop._ **

This was why he was doing this in the first place, wasn't it? To quite everything down?

He has a short list of things he needs to think of together, and it's kind of important that it doesn't get lost in introspection, something that Tom—

**_Are you finished?_ **

He didn't know it was his own conciousness or Harry's, but he hoped—

**_This really isn't going well. You've made a terrible mistake._ **

He takes out a folded piece of parchment, the only non-clothing object within five feet of himself. He can't read it in the darkness, of course, but all of the letters are burned into his head in the same order they were burned into the tips of his fingers when he combed over him. The words feel like little infernos of indentation and ink:

_Reincarnation (Born again)_

_Horcrux_

The list is as ridiculous as it is long, and Tom doesn't know what that means for him, really. 

**_I'm dying._ **

Yeah. 

There's that, too. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> . . .
> 
> So I don't really know what to say about this one. 
> 
> After the last behemoth, I don't know what this "appropriate chapter length" thing is that you speak of. Granted, this one didn't take me actual /months/ (sorry, again) to write, but it still feels a little short. 
> 
> Short it may be, but filled with an exceptional amount of important plot garbage? Also a thing this chapter is doing. We're finally getting somewhere in terms of what the heck is going on and why Tom's here! Less dramatic exposition and prose! Rejoice!
> 
> (Also, I know I have a lot of editing I need to do with grammar and everything, but that honestly, probably won't happen until this thing is done. :( So sorry about that.)
> 
> Please leave any questions, comments, and/or concerns down below! 
> 
> Happy reading!


End file.
